FT MEADE 
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Class Z 

Rnnl r ■ 0 Z*°, _ 

fo]pgOT ?_. 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 

GPO 










MOONSHINE 










* 

















LINDY 











BY 

J. F. OERTEL 


‘I have eaten your bread and salt, 

I have’drunk your water’and wine, 

The deaths that ye died I have watched beside 
And the livesjthat ye led were mine.” 

—Kipling. 




THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 
MACON, GEORGIA 
1926 























> 


Copyright, 1926 
By J. F. Oertel 
Washington, D. C. 


AUG1476 


> , V 

1 * 


©C1A901440 


( 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface__7 

Chapter 1—The Still and Its Owners_11 

Chapter 2—“Lindy” Makes a Promise_21 

Chapter 3—Preachin’ on Buck Creek_33 

Chapter 4—“Hit Mought be Yes, an’ Hit Mought be 

No" _42 

Chapter 5—Betrayed _46 

Chapter 6—The “Revenuer” _53 

Chapter 7—The Fight and Capture of the Still_58 

Chapter 8—The Promise Broken_67 

Chapter 9—The Word of a Mountaineer_77 

Chapter 10—Murder Will Out_82 

Chapter 11—In the Shadow of Death_87 

Chapter 12—The “Yaller Streak”_94 

Chapter 13—The Prize Scarecrow-101 

Chapter 14—“I’ve Got My Gun”-107 

Chapter 15—The End of the Rope-115 

Chapter 16—The Trial-122 

Chapter 17—Justice-130 

Chapter 18—Homeward -136 

Chapter 19—After the Struggle—Peace-141 
























PREFACE 


M oonshining at one time was a comparatively respectable 
occupation. In the mountains of the South where, per¬ 
haps, it was carried on more than in any other section, it was, 
one may say, forced on the people rather than chosen. 

To haul the grain or fruit raised to market, twenty-five 
to seventy-five miles away and over such roads as then ex¬ 
isted, would have been a losing game and was not to be 
thought of. It was therefore converted into whiskey or 
brandy which could be so transported at a profit. 

After the Civil War, when the heavy tax was put on the 
manufacture of liquor, these mountaineers could not under¬ 
stand why they still did not have a right to make their pro¬ 
duce into what would pay them to transport, and still less 
why they should be prohibited from making their own corn 
or rye into whiskey for their own use. 

In doing this they did not consider that they were break¬ 
ing a law, but rather that they were exercising a right. They 
had fought the government which now assumed the right to 
dictate how they should live and what they should do with 
the produce of their farms. Many did not consider that 
they had surrendered just because Lee and his army had been 
forced to do so, and felt that they owed no allegiance to the 
government of the State or the Nation. 

Little they knew of what was being done by this govern¬ 
ment which had been set up against their will. Little they 
knew of politics and the scheming of political parties. Still 
less they cared. 

They were not in touch with the outside world. About 
everything they needed—or cared to have—was produced or 
made in their mountain homes. Wool was carded by hand 
and made into cloth and blankets; flax was grown, hackled, 
and spun into thread; most of the furniture was home-made; 
the blacksmith forged their plows and made the stocks, and 

7 



8 


MOONSHINE 


also made their wagons and sleds. They built their houses 
of logs hewn by hand with a broadax, or lumber sawn at 
a local mill, and covered them with shingles or “boards” 
rived from straight grained timber and shaved into shape 
with a drawing knife. The cattle, hogs, and sheep ranged 
the woods most of the year in a semi-wild state and were 
killed at any time when meat was needed. Even the rifles 
they then used, the long barrel muzzle-loaders, were often 
locally produced. 

Living thus in primative independence what wonder that 
they resented any interference with their established customs 
—which, to them, seemed their rights? 

Thus it will be seen that while so regarded in law, the 
moonshiner did not consider himself a criminal, nor that he 
was really doing anything wrong in converting what he raised 
into what he could sell or use. 

For this reason have I said that the business of moon- 
shining was at one time a comparatively respectable occupa¬ 
tion. 

Then, too, the mountain moonshiner took pride in making 
good whiskey or brandy and so locally established a reputa¬ 
tion for his product. 

It will be seen that in all this he was far above the “boot¬ 
legger” of the present day, whose only object is to make 
money, who cares not what poison he sells, or how many 
lives it costs, so he gets the price charged for that poison. 
He has no excuse for breaking the law, and the immense 
profits to be realized is his sole reason for engaging in the 
occupation and running the risk of detection and fine. With 
this class of individual it would be vain to expect the sem¬ 
blance of honesty or fair dealing. He is as ready to cheat 
a customer as to cheat the government and does so at every 
opportunity. 

On the other hand, the moonshiner of old was—for the 
most part—an honest man, and what might be termed a good 
citizen of the section where he resided. His dealings with 
his neighbors were as just as theirs with him, and in selling 


MOONSHINE 


9 


his whiskey he was honest enough to furnish a good article 
and charge no more than a fair price. Truly, the old moon¬ 
shiner was a character as far superior to the modern “boot¬ 
legger” as any honest man is above a sneak-thief or a pick¬ 
pocket. 

Many tales of these people have been written, but for the 
most part only the most lawless and desperate characters have 
been depicted. 

In justice to some of the friends—real friends—which I 
once had among them, I am writing the following story. 

The Author. 

Vienna, Va., Feb., 1926. 



BIG BILL’S CABIN 







MOONSHINE 


Chapter I 

THE STILL AND ITS OWNERS 

TD ack in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North 
Carolina, some forty-odd miles from the near¬ 
est place which could, by any stretch of imagination, 
be called a town, Big Buck Creek worked its way 
through the hills. A typical mountain stream, clear as 
crystal, gliding through dense thickets, foaming over 
shoals and falls, or flowing calmly and smoothly and 
forming deep pools where beautiful speckled trout 
hid under mossy banks and overhanging boughs, 
ready to dart out and seize passing minnow or the 
bait of the angler. 

As it pursued its course, now on this side of the 
narrow valley, now on that, little strips of bottom 
land appeared, some cleared and under cultivation. 
At a point known as “the elbow,” because of the 
sharp turn here made by the creek, lay the widest 
of these bottoms, and perched on the hill above 
could be seen the cabin of the owner, “Big Bill” 
Holler. 

The cabin was of the “double log” type, or two 
cabins built near together, joined by a covered way, 
and had a heavy stone chimney at each end and a 
small porch on the side overlooking the valley. 


ii 




12 


MOONSHINE 


One cabin served as kitchen and dining room, the 
other as parlor, sitting room and sleeping quarters. 
The connecting passage also was used as a bedroom 
in summer. The fireplaces were large enough to 
take a four-foot stick of wood, and fancy andirons, 
made by the blacksmith, stood like sentinels on the 
ample hearth. About everything the house contained 
was home-made. The “four-post” bedsteads were 
corded across from the rails and on these cords 
rested the “shuck” or straw mattress in summer to 
be topped by a feather bed in cold weather. Counter¬ 
panes woven in fancy patterns of blue and red, and 
quilts of patchwork told the skill of the women folk 
with loom and needle. 

Strong chairs of hickory with oak-split seats, and 
tables with sturdy legs and solid tops, attested the 
workmanship of the men. 

Near the house stood the ash hopper, where lye 
was leeched from the wood ashes to make soap; 
there was a small smokehouse and barn in the rear, 
while from the side ran a well-worn path down the 
hillside to the spring house where stood the big iron 
pot, used for boiling clothes—for all the washing 
was done at the spring instead of “toting” the water 
to the house—a “battle-board” with paddle for 
beating the clothes near by, and from the broken 
limb of a small tree hung the gourd of soft soap. 


MOONSHINE 


13 


The few flower beds in the yard were bordered 
around with white stones, partly for ornament, but 
mainly to prevent the chickens from scratching away 
the soil from the roots of the plants. Here bloomed 
some of the old-fashioned flowers, zenias, marigolds 
and cockscomb, and a bunch of hollyhocks stood at 
the end of the porch, while from behind the wattled 
split paling fence which surrounded the garden nodd¬ 
ed the heavy heads of sunflowers, and between could 
be seen the red foliage of the castor bean, planted 
“to keep moles away.” 

Behind the house and barn wound the trail, dig¬ 
nified by the name of “the big road,” on its way to 
the mill and on over the ridges to where it joined 
“the river road,” the main outlet for that section. 
Perhaps half a mile below the mill was a small store, 
kept by Brooks Bryson, who, about two years previ¬ 
ously had come into that section from Tennessee. 

Above “the elbow” the hills closed in and were 
covered with a dense growth of rhododendron 
(called “laurel” by the mountain people, while the 
real laurel is known as “ivy”) and in this thicket, 
where Big Buck ran quiet and deep, came in a small 
stream which dropped in crystal rivulets from a gap 
in the rocks above. 

At the time my story opens, had one followed up 
the course of this little stream, he would have come 


14 


MOONSHINE 


upon the still-house of “Big Bill” Holler. A very 
crude affair it was, built of rough logs laid up with¬ 
out “chinking” or “daubing,” and covered with rived 
3-foot boards which were held in place by “weight 
poles” laid on each course. No nails were used, 
even the rough door being put together with pegs 
and hung on wooden hinges. The still was mounted 
on a furnace of rock laid in red clay instead of mor¬ 
tar, and had only enough chimney to carry the smoke 
above the top of the still, where it found its way out 
as best it could—at side or through a hole in the 
roof. A barrel, containing the worm, was set beside 
the furnace into which water from the little stream 
flowed through a wooden trough. 

There were several tubs for the “mash,” a few 
kegs to hold the liquor made and a large trough for 
the “slop,” or still refuse, which was at times fed 
to cattle or hogs. 

A short mile down the creek was the little mill, 
run by the water of Big Buck, which lazily turned 
the overshot wheel to grind the corn into meal, or 
with splash and splutter whirled the little undershot 
which worked the clumsy “sash-saw” through the 
logs and turned out such plank or scantling as might 
be needed in the neighborhood. 

The owner and operator of this outfit—John Ban- 
nard—put corn in the hopper and went outside of 


MOONSHINE 


15 


the mill, where he seated himself on a rock and light¬ 
ed his pipe. John was a typical mountaineer, tall, 
sinewy, and sun-browned, with light sandy hair and 
keen gray eyes. One would have judged him to be 
about twenty-five years of age—and been fairly cor¬ 
rect, though John was a “leetle unsartin” about his 
age, his parents having both died when he was a boy 
and left no record of the date of his birth. 

John Bannard was far from being a handsome 
man, but there was an open and frank expression 
in his face and his gray eyes could sparkle with 
mirth—or glitter like a dagger’s point when his 
temper was up. He was sturdily built and every 
movement exhibited muscular power. When he 
came out of the mill with a two-bushel sack of meal 
on his shoulder and laid it across the back of a wait¬ 
ing horse it was plain to see that the action cost him 
no effort. 

John sat and smoked, and, having nobody to talk 
to, supposing no one near, talked aloud to himself. 

“Hit’s hard ter believe, but ef Bill Holler said 
hit, hit's so. I wish’t I’d gone ’long like he wanted 
me, an’ then I’d seen hit too, but I couldn’t leave 
ther mill fur nigh on two weeks. Hit tuk that long 
fur him ter go an’ come. Hit must be nigh on ter 
70 mile ter Hick’ry. That’s a good hundred an’ 
forty mile t’ travel—a long ways ter go t’ see hit, 


16 


MOONSHINE 


but I wish’t I’d gone, fur ef Bill Holler says hit’s so 
— hit’s so.” 

“What’s so?” The speaker had come around the 
corner of the mill unobserved by John and now stood 
leaning against a tree only a few yards away. There 
was a marked contrast between the newcomer and 
the miller. He was what one would call good-look¬ 
ing, with brown eyes and hair, clean shaven, of good 
figure and fairly well dressed—for that section. 
Both his speech and manner indicated that he was 
not a native of that mountain country. “What’s so?” 
he repeated. 

John knocked the ashes from his pipe on the rock 
at his side, and then asked: “Did yer ever see a 
cirkus, Brooks Bryson? Yer come here from Ten- 
nessy, an’ I ’lows mabbe you has. I hain’t never 
been nowhar’, ner seen nothin’, Old man Bill wer’ 
a tellin’ me what he seed at John Rob’son’s cirkus 
—down ter Hick’ry, whar he went ter take some 
licker, an’ I war jist sayin’ that ef anyone else tol’ 
me sich tales I’d say they was a-lyin’, but ef Bill 
Holler says hit, hit’s so, bekase he never lies.” 

Bryson laughed, and the laugh carried with it 
something like a sneer, which caused John Bannard 
to look up quickly and his eyes flash at the seeming 
insult, but Bryson continued: “Yes, I’ve seen a cir¬ 
cus, and some of them have a heap of curious things 


MOONSHINE 


17 


—people and animals—from all over the world— 
and they do all kinds of wonderful tricks. I reckon 
Bill told you the truth all right.” 

“I knows he did, fur he never tells nothin’ else,” 
retorted Bannard, “howsomever, hit does seem hard 
ter believe—’bout a man eatin’ fire, swallowin’ a 
sword, makin’ two rabbits out of one, an’ pickin’ 
money out of the air like pickin’ chink’pins offen the 
bushes. I wish’t I’d gone with him so I could have 
seed hit.” 

“Did he sell all his liquor?” inquired Bryson. 

“I ’low he did,” replied Bannard. “He never 
fotch none back. Ther’ wer’ a power of people 
camped ’round in ther woods, an’ ef any of ’em got 
a taste of that licker they shore wanted mo’.” 

“Bill better watch out,” said Bryson, “some day 
the revenue officers will come up here and catch him 
—and to jail he will go.” 

“I can’t see why they should want’er pester us— 
way up here,” replied Bannard; “we didn’t have 
nothin’ ter do with makin’ that fool law puttin’ a 
tax of 90 cents a gallon on whiskey. That’s more’n 
a gallon is wuth. We don’t bother nobody, an’ only 
make a little licker out of what co’n our stock don’t 
need. What else could we do with hit—I’d like ter 
know? What right has anybody got ter come up 
here an tell us what we must—er must not—do with 
our co’n an’ truck?” 


18 


MOONSHINE 


“I don’t know about the right,” said Bryson, “but 
they’ve got the might, and can make it hot for any¬ 
one they catch. Some day they are going to get him 
—and you, too, if you don’t mind, for you help him 
if you are not his actual partner.” 

“That’s none of your bizness,” replied Bannard, 
“ner nobody’s. I don’t believe ther revenuers will 
ever come way up here, hit’s too fur, an’ ef they does 
they’ll have a h—1 of a time a findin’ whar ther still 
is. Ther’ ain’t but three in ther settlement as knows 
whar hit is, er how ter get to hit.” 

“There might be others for all you know,” said 
Bryson. “Someone might know—or find out—and 
tell the revenue people about it.” 

“I don’t know who ’round here would be mean 
an’ ornery enough ter do that,” retorted Bannard, 
ner what he’d do hit fur. Who is hit as has got 
anything agin’ Bill Holler? Who is hit as he ain’t 
done a good turn? Didn’t he swim Big Buck when 
hit war bank-full jist ter go help old man Burlison 
doctor a sick hoss? When Jim Council fell often 
ther cliff an’ broke his leg, when we-all was deer 
huntin’, didn’t Bill take him on his back an’ tote him 
home—nigh on t’ five mile through ther woods? 

‘He’s looked out fer old Sally Horton ever since 
her man died an’ kep’ her in meat an’ meal. Who 
is hit as would do Bill Holler a mean trick? Thar 


MOONSHINE 


19 


ain’t nobody in twenty mile of here as I knows on.” 

“Well,” said Bryson, “there might be some money 
to be made out of it, and when there is money to be 
had there is always someone to reach out and get it. 
Besides this, someone might have a grudge against 
Bill—or you—and give you away, even if they have 
to do what you call a ‘mean trick!’ Perhaps some 
people would not think it was mean to report a man 
for making whiskey when it is against the law.” 

“That’s a cu’rus way ter look at hit,” said Ban- 
nard. “A mean trick is a mean trick, so fur as I sees, 
no matter what is behind hit, an’ I don’t know any 
meaner one than tryin’t’ git a neighbor inter trouble. 
Anyhow, I don’t know of no one in these parts as 
wouldn’t rather fight fur Bill then agin’ him—er do 
him a favor ’stead of hurtin’ him in any way. I ain’t 
afeard of that.” 

Bryson did not reply to this but as he turned to go 
said, “I think I’ll go up to Holler’s and hear what he 
has to tell about his trip.” 

When he was gone John Bannard again lighted 
his pipe, and again soliloquized: “I don’t somehow 
like that feller, Brooks Bryson, though he never done 
nothin’ ter me. He’s got what they calls a eddyca- 
shun, but that don’t make a good man outen a bad 
one. He come here from Tennessy and nobody 
knowed nothin’ ’bout him, but Bill Holler liked him 
an’ that war enough fur the balance of us.” 


20 


MOONSHINE 


John paused as if in thought, and then suddenly 
slapping his leg he exclaimed: “He’s bin goin’ up ter 
Bill’s right smart of late; I wonder ef he’s after 
flyin’ ’roun Lindy?” 

John Bannard had always considered Malinda 
Holler, Bill’s only child, his property. They had 
grown up together, played together as boy and girl, 
hunted and fished together, and while he had never 
spoken of love to her it was mainly because it did not 
seem necessary. He knew that he did love her and 
believed that she loved him. Now for the first time it 
dawned on him that someone else might wish to 
claim what he had considered his. 

So long as his fancied right of possession was un¬ 
disputed he had been content to let matters stand as 
they were and make no effort to bring them to a 
focus. Now he had awakened to realize his negli¬ 
gence and the consequences which might follow. “I’ll 
go up ter Bill’s this evenin’,” he said. 


Chapter II 


“LINDY” MAKES A PROMISE 


" John dusted the meal from his homespun 



clothes with a pine brush, preparatory to going 
up to the Holler place, he said to himself: “What 
a durned fool you’ve been, John Bannard, jist goin’ 
on as ef you held a mortgage on Lindy Holler, an’ 
never thinkin’ as how some cuss mought come along 
an’ cut yer out. Well, when ther road’s bin good 
a right smart piece hit’s mighty like ter be bad fur 
a spell, but a feller has ter travel over hit jist the 
same. I wonders why Brooks Bryson axed ’bout 
ther licker Bill tuck ter Hick’ry? What in hell has 
he got ter do with hit? An’ then, what he said ’bout 
some folks not thinkin’ hit a mean trick t’ report a 
man fur stillin’. I wonders ef he’d do hit. I’ll have 
ter watch him a little closer.” 

Arrived at the Holler house John found “Big 
Bill” at the wood pile chopping wood for the kitch¬ 
en fire. Such a thing as a stove was unknown in that 
section. All the cooking was done on the big crane 
in the fireplace, or on its broad hearth, in pots, pans, 
skillets, or “ovens” which stood on three legs and 
had iron covers whereon to pile hot ashes and coals 
when top heat was desired. 


21 


22 


MOONSHINE 


With this outfit food was prepared in a way which 
would equal anything from the most modern kitchen. 
The hominy pot was seldom off of the crane, and 
being thoroughly cooked, and made from selected 
corn, beaten in the home-made mortar, this dish had 
a flavor all its own. Meat was broiled on the live 
coals, and corn-pone and cakes came from the ovens 
a beautiful, rich brown. When working before these 
fireplaces the women usually wore home-made sun- 
bonnets to protect face and eyes from the heat and 
glare. 

“Howdy, Bill.” “Howdy, John,” were all the 
salutations exchanged, and John stood watching the 
big mountaineer as at each stroke he sank his ax in 
the log up to the eye. 

“Big Bill” well deserved the name. Six feet four 
inches in height, broad of shoulder and strong of 
limb. He wore the usual “butternut jeans”—cloth 
woven on his own loom by his wife and daughter, 
an old wool hat with downward slope of brim cov¬ 
ered his head of tousled brown hair, and his beard, 
which was cropped short, was of the same color, 
while a pair of dark brown eyes looked from under 
shaggy brows. 

At first glance Bill would have been called a fierce 
looking individual, but on closer inspection and ac¬ 
quaintance it would be seen that this designation was 


MOONSHINE 


23 


far from correct. His voice was smooth and even 
rich in tone, his manner was easy and gracious, and 
the dark eyes shone with a kindly light, having an 
expression more of sadness than ferocity. He was, 
in fact, a man of quiet disposition and of few words, 
but it was said that when really aroused he was 
“hell-a-mile.” 

“Got to go milk, John,” said Bill, sticking his ax 
in the end of a log, “come ’long an’ hold old Spot’s 
hind leg fur me. She ain’t usen ter men—only wim- 
en critters—an’ mought hist me one. Jennie’s 
gone over t’ Burlison’s an’ Lindy’s gettin’ supper. 
Bin t’ supper, John?” 

John remembered that he had not. “No,” said 
he, “ain’t had none yit. I jist come up ter talk ter 
yer, Bill; I kin do hit whilst youse is milkin’. Come 
on.” 

Once at the cow-pen Bill drove Spot into a fence 
corner, squatted on the ground by her side, and, 
piggin in hand, proceeded to milk. 

“What is hit, John, anything pesterin’ of yer?” 
inquired Bill. With characteristic bluntness John 
replied, “Yes, Bill, somethin’ is pesterin’ me, an’ I 
reckin hit should. Hit’s ’bout Lindy.” 

“Lindy!” exclaimed her father, “what’s she bin 
doin’?” 

“She hain’t bin doin’ nothin’ as I knows on,” re¬ 
plied John, “hit ain’t that, hit’s me, I reckin.” 


24 


MOONSHINE 


“You!” said Bill. “What’s youse bin doin’ ?” 

“I hain’t bin doin’ nothin’ neither,” said Bannard, 
“an’ I reckin that’s what’s ther matter.” 

“What air yer tryin’ ter git at?” asked the thor¬ 
oughly mystified Holler. “You hain’t done nothin’, 
an’ Lindy hain’t! Spit hit out, boy, who has ?” 

“Hit’s jist this, Bill,” said John, pulling himself 
together. “Me an’ Lindy has bin raised t’gether, an’ 
somehow hit ’peard ter me we’d allers be so. I 
never axed her ef she loved me, an’ would marry 
me, ner said anything ter youse about hit—jist be- 
kase hit ’peared ter me like hit had ter be that-a- 
way anyhow.” 

Just at this juncture “Spot” decided to “hist Bill 
one” which she did so effectively as to send him 
sprawling on the ground—the half-filled piggin strik¬ 
ing Bannard full in the breast, spattering milk over 
him from head to foot. 

Bill picked himself up, and, ignoring the cow, who 
ran capering off across the lot, stood and regarded 
Bannard for a moment in silence. Then he walked 
up to him, placed a big hand on either shoulder, and 
said, “John Bannard, I’ve knowd yer ever sence yer 
wer’ born and, as youse knows, I’ve allers treated 
yer like as if yer was my own son, which yer seemed 
ter be after young Bill died. You an’ Lindy has bin 
like brother an’ sister, an’ I never thought of yer 



“BIG BILL” 



























MOONSHINE 


25 


no other way. Sence Brooks Bryson has bin’ cornin’ 
ter see Lindy, an’ yer never said nothin’, I ’lowd as 
how you didn’t care fur her no other way.” 

Bannard looked dazed. Though he had allowed 
the suspicion to enter his mind that Bryson might be 
supplanting him he had not really believed it was so. 
Now the thought that it might be so for the moment 
overcame him. 

Finally he spoke. “Bill, I never had no gal but 
Lindy, an’ never expects ter have no other. Bryson 
has got a eddycashun, an’ I ain’t got none t’ speak 
of, but he ain’t good ’nough fur Lindy. I ain’t 

nuther, but I means ter have her, an’ by -, he 

shan’t.” 

“Hold, John,” said Holler, “you fergits ther gal. 
Ain’t she got nothin’ ter say about hit? I can’t go 
agin’ her. Suppose befo’ yer flies offen ther handle 
yer axes her what she ’lows ter do. Lindy ain’t no 
baby, an’ kin tell yer. Hit ain’t no use fer me ter 
tell yer that I’d rather have youse than any man I 
knows fur a son. You knows that. But ther gal, 
John, ther gal is ther one ter say.” 

Just then came a call from the house— u Pap, whar 
is yer? Supper’s done ready.” “All right,” called 
Holler, “Lindy’ll have ter finish milkin’ that dog- 
goned cow. She’ll stand still enough fur her, er 
Jennie. Let’s go to the house, have a drink an’ some 
supper.” 



26 


MOONSHINE 


They walked in silence to the house where the jug 
of “peach” was produced and each took a moderate 
drink—as their fathers—probably grandfathers— 
had done—and then went on to the kitchen where 
Lindy was putting supper on the table. She gave a 
start of surprise on seeing Bannard, and exclaimed, 
“Howdy, John, I ain’t seen yer fur a coon’s age. 
Whar yer bin keepin’ yerself fur so long?” To this 
John replied by merely saying, “Hit has bin a long 
spell, longer t’ me then t’ youse, I reckin.” The 
girl continued to busy herself about the table, setting 
an extra place for John, and said no more but seemed 
to be ill at ease. Both seemed then to feel the 
weight of what was to come to them in the future. 

“Lindy,” said Bill, “Spot done histed me a good 
one, an’ throwed what milk ther’ was in the piggin 
all over John. You’ll have ter go out an’ git ther 
balance when we’s done supper.” 

Lindy laughed: “Spot ain’t got no use fur men, 
an’ mam ’lows she is showin’ purty good sense. Some 
of ’em is all right but Spot don’t know no difference.” 

Lindy was not pretty, nor could she be justly term¬ 
ed handsome. She was tall, perfectly formed and 
moved with an air of conscious strength. Her brown 
hair was done up carelessly in a twisted knot on top 
of her head, and her brown eyes—like her father’s 
—met one’s gaze openly and fearlessly. A rather 


MOONSHINE 


27 


under-sized nose, with a slight upward tilt, gave her 
freckled face an expression of independence. She 
was dressed in the homespun garments of the moun¬ 
tains, and her sunbonnet hung by its strings down 
her back, having been thrown off as soon as the 
cooking was done. 

No, Lindy was neither pretty nor handsome, but 
for all that there was about her a certain wild charm 
of manner and bearing which could not fail to at¬ 
tract attention wherever she might be. 

All sat down to the table and for some time ate in 
silence, which was at last broken by Bannard. “Bry¬ 
son says as how ther revenuers is goin’ t’ git you, 
Bill, an’ me, ef we don’t quit runnin’ ther still.” 

“Why,” said Holler, “we ain’t done nothin’ but 
make up what co’n we didn’t need fur ther stock. 
They ain’t got no right t’ keep us from usin’ what 
w 7 e makes, an’ we don’t bother nobody doin’ hit. 
Why should ther gov’ment want ter pester a man 
what minds his own bizness an’ makes a little licker 
outen his co’n crap? I don’t see. Hit ain’t right. 
We don’t bother nobody, then why should they 
bother us? My granddaddy allers made his licker, 
an’ drunk hit, too, an’ so did Pap, so why shouldn’t 
I? I can’t see.” 

“Hit looks that a-way ter me, too,” said John, 
“but ’pears like things is gettin’ different from what 


28 


MOONSHINE 


they usen ter be. A man hain’t got no rights no mo’ 
what the gov’ment don’t want ter take away. Hit 
’pears ter be all right fur folks what lives in towns 
an’ cities t’ have all ther licker they wants, an git 
hit any way they can, but when we-uns wants ter make 
a few gallons, er sell some of what we has, then 
they sends ther revenuers a’ter us. Hit ain’t right.” 

“Hit sure seems that a-way,” said Holler. “Ther’ 
hain’t no use tryin t’ run a gov-ment still with ther 
tax whar hit is. Down country, whar a man can 
git as much as two dollars a gallon fur his licker, 
he can make wages, but up here, nobody is goin’ 
ter pay no sich figger. Hit’s too much, an ther’ 
hain’t no use in axin’ hit. 

“I don’t believe ther revenuers would come up this 
fur nohow, even ef they knowd whar ter find our 
still, which they don’t, an’ won’t. Nobody knows 
but me, an’ you an’ Lindy, an’ so fur as most of ’em 
hereabouts is consarned, they don’t want ter know.” 

“Bryson says,” replied John, “that when ther’s 
money ter be made by hit somebody allers finds out. 
Mabbe some feller would tell ther revenuers—ef 
he knowd.” 

“Well, he don’t,” said Holler, “an’ ain’t gwine 
ter. Better grind up ther rest of ther co’n at ther 
mill, an’ we’ll mash in fust of ther week.” 

Holler rose from the table as he spoke, and then 


MOONSHINE 


29 


observed, “Think I’ll go over t’ Burlison’s after Jen¬ 
nie. Don’t furgit Spot, Lindy.” 

During the operation of clearing away the rem¬ 
nants of supper and washing the dishes, in which 
John assisted, little was said by either. After all 
was done they went out on the little porch and took 
seats in the split-bottom chairs. 

For some time they sat in silence, Lindy because 
she saw that John had something on his mind, and 
John because he did not know how to begin to say it. 

Lindy was the first to speak. “Why haven’t yer 
bin up here fur sich a long spell, exceptin’ ter go 
with Pap t’ ther still? I ’lowd yer done furgot 
me, an’ didn’t want ter even go fishin’ with me no 
mo . 

“Mostly I’ve bin takin’ keer of Uncle Tom a’ter 
I quit work at ther mill. Uncle Tom had a misery 
in his side an’ couldn’t do nothin’ at ther house, so 
I’ve had ter do hit all, an’ hit has kep’ me pow-ful 
busy,” said John, then he continued, “Lindy, gal, you 
an’ me was ris’ up t’gether, an’ hit seemed ter me 
like we’d jist allers be that-a-way. I never tol’ yer 
I loved yer, ner axed yer t’ marry me, jist ’cause 
of that, but somethin’ ter day made me think I had 
orter, an’ right off. Now I done tol’ yer.” 

John turned toward her as he spoke, but she drew 
back, just enough to check the movement. “I never 


30 


MOONSHINE 


thought ’bout yer that-a-way, John,” she said, u an’ 
I don’t know now as I could. You’ve seemed like 
my brother—more so sence Bill was took. No, I 
never thought of yer that-a-way.” 

“Lindy,' gal, tell me,” and John’s voice was deep 
and solemn, “tell me thar ain’t nobody else youse 
is thinkin’ of that-a-way?” 

The girl hesitated. It now was plain to John that 
what he had feared was proved to be real. “Bryson,” 
he said, “is hit Bryson, Lindy?” 

Lindy, w T ith face averted, and in a low tone at 
last said, “Brooks axed me terday ter marry him. 
I hain’t said yes, an’ I hain’t said no. He’s bin 
mighty good ter me, an’ talks so fine.” “Yes,” 
broke in Bannard fiercely, “that’s hit, he talks so 
fine. He’s got a eddycashun, an’ I hain’t got none 
what amounts t’ much, exceptin’ ter read an’ write 
a little. Yes, he’s good lookin’ an’ talks fine, but 
Lindy, that don’t make a man all he had orter be. 

“Hit ain’t bekase I’m jealous, Lindy, but there’s 
som’thin’ ’bout Brooks Bryson as ain’t right, an’ I 
don’t like. I don’ know what hit is, but hit’s thar. 
He ain’t good ’nough fur youse. I ain’t nuther, I 
done tol’ Bill that, but Lindy; gal, you knows me an’ 
jist what I is. Youse don’t know much ’bout him. 

“I tol’ yer Pap I aimed ter have yer, an’ I does. 
I don’t know what I mought do ef I wer’ pushed, 


MOONSHINE 


31 


but jist now all I am axin’ is this: afore yer makes 
up yer mind be sartin yer knows what sort ’er man 
Brooks Bryson is. 

“I has an ide’ as how ef yer waits a spell you’ll 
find out. Thar’s a yaller streak in that cuss, an’ 
sooner er later hit’ll show up.” 

“Brooks is a gentleman,” retorted the girl hotly, 
“youse don’t know nothin’ ’bout him neither, an’ 
shan’t cuss him out ter me.” 

“I ain’t cussin’ him out, Lindy,” replied Bannard, 
“ef I had anything agin’ him he’d know hit soon 
enough. I don’t have ter tell yer that. I’m only 
axin’ yer ter go slow, an’ give me a chance. Nobody 
ain’t ever goin’ ter love yer like I does, Lindy, gal. 
Ef yer hain’t said yes t’ Bryson, all I axes is fur yer 
not ter say hit tell yer finds out mo’ ’bout him. 

“Thar ain’t nothin’ ter find out ’bout me. Yer 
knows hit all, ’ceptin how much I loves yer. I’ve 
bin a plum damn fool not to have tol’ yer long ago. 
Now as I has I’m aimin’ ter show yer. Tell me, 
Lindy, gal, do I git ther chance?” 

“I done said, John,” replied the girl, “as how I’d 
tell him—yes, or no—t’morrer night. A’ter what 
you axed me I can’t say yes, an’ I won’t say no. 
I’ll tell Brooks he’s got t’ wait ’til craps is laid by, 
so I kin help Pap.” 

“That’s all I wants, Lindy, gal,” replied Ban- 


32 


MOONSHINE 


nard, “I’ve bin a durned blind fool, but I’ve got 
my eyes open now, an’ ef they don’t see som’thin’ 
afore craps is laid by hit’ll be cu’rus.” 

“I hears pap an’ mam cornin’,” said Lindy sud¬ 
denly, “I must run an’ finish milkin’ Spot, er mam’ll 
have ter do hit.” 

As she rose John said quickly, “I thanks yer, 
Lindy, gal; yer won’t be sorry fer givin’ me ther 
chance.” 

Soon after Bill and his wife arrived John took 
his leave. He was in no mood to talk, even to Bill, 
whose stand in the matter he regarded as decidedly 
against him. 

“I’ll grind that co’n termorrer, Bill,” he said, 
“and we can mash in any time you says. You-all ’ll 
be goin’ ter preachin’ I reckin, but I’ll have t’ stay 
at ther mill and grind up what the folks leaves.” 

The next day there was to be “preachin’ ” at the 
Buck Creek Meetin’-house, quite an event, as the 
visits of the preacher were few and far between, 
and about all in the neighborhood attended the 
gathering. 


Chapter III 


PREACHIN’ ON BUCK CREEK 

rpiHE preachers who “used” in the back mountain 
region were mostly of the migratory variety, of 
limited education and knowledge, who traveled from 
point to point according to more or less of a schedule, 
and lived off of the country as they proceeded. 

They were equally famous for their capacity for 
fried chicken and their shrewdness in swapping 
horses. It took a good man, physically, to best one 
at the table, and one of keen wit to effect a horse 
trade that was to his own advantage. 

These traveling preachers, in addition to the stock 
of religious knowledge they were supposed to carry 
from place to place for the benefit of their various 
congregations, were also the medium through which 
all kinds of news was distributed. These items of 
news were often given out from the “pulpit” even 
though having no reference to religious worship. 

On his last visit to Buck Creek “meetin’-house” 
Preacher Kip Miles, the supervisor of souls for that 
section, had made this announcement: “Thar’ll be 
preachin’ in this here meetin’-house this day two 
weeks, the Lord willin’—this day three weeks wheth¬ 
er or no.” This was the due an ancient form of 
33 


34 


MOONSHINE 


giving such notice, and was considered neither pe¬ 
culiar nor irreverent. 

That on the first date the Lord had apparently not 
been “willin’,” was well-known to all in spite of the 
absence of messenger, letter, telegraph, or telephone, 
for, as a result of copious rains, both the river and 
creek had been out of banks, and “past fordin’.” 

This being the case it was, of course, taken for 
granted that the latter date would be kept, and all 
in the section who were—for business, pleasure, or 
religious zeal—inclined to attend, prepared to make 
the journey. 

Some who lived within a few miles went on foot, 
others on horseback, while the covered wagon, with 
bed filled with straw, served for the transportation 
of a number of families, and in these, despite the 
absence of springs, and the rocks, roots, and gullies 
of the road, they traveled quite as contentedly as 
the modern church goer who rolls over level streets 
in his limousine, and probably went with quite as 
worthy a motive. 

Some made the trip for the purpose of meeting 
their friends and neighbors and, combining business 
with pleasure, took a “turn” of grist which was left 
at Bannard’s mill and the meal called for on the re¬ 
turn. Many, especially of the women folk, had no 
other outing and went because it was a change or 


MOONSHINE 


35 


relief from the monotony of this isolated life. 

Probably there was also the average proportion 
of those who went—or thought they went—for the 
good they expected to absorb from Bro. Miles, and 
the association with brothers and sisters of the same 
religious persuasion. 

The brand of religion adopted by these people 
was, for the most part, of the Baptist variety, though 
each section seemed to have its own special form of 
worship and belief, sometimes even a local designa¬ 
tion, depending largely on the preacher and his par¬ 
ticular views, in which they were not unlike some 
of our more populous and enlightened communities. 

It was simple in the extreme, in which they were 
perhaps much better off than we who are obliged to 
have our souls harrassed and our minds confused 
by the many complex and conflicting dogmas, beliefs 
and non-beliefs, held by the manifold sects of the 
so-called civilized world, each of which claim to con¬ 
trol and operate the most direct road to Heaven, 
yet, between them all, with their various contortions 
and windings, forming a veritable labyrinth from 
which escape is well-nigh impossible. In this the un- 
happy pilgrim and seeker-after-truth only wanders 
aimlessly about amidst the maze of trails, blazes, 
and guide-boards. 

With our people of the mountains no such diffi- 


36 


MOONSHINE 


culty was encountered. The road, as pointed out 
by the one authority, the preacher, was as plain as 
“the big road” down the river. The belief, such 
as it was, there were none to contradict or dispute. 
It was all as simple as their simple lives, and he who 
got off of the trail, and into the bushes, had only 
his own carelessness and indifference to blame. 

Buck Creek Meetin’-house was a mere box. There 
was a small platform at the further end for the 
preacher, whereon was a chair and a small table, 
which did duty as reading desk and “pulpit.” A row 
of benches, made of slabs with pegs inserted at each 
end for legs, stretched down both sides of the room 
leaving a rather dubious aisle up the center. 

Before the preacher came most of the women sat 
inside, while the men gathered in little knots about 
the building, smoked, “chawed,” swapped horses, 
and discussed the weather, crops, and other matters 
of interest. 

Preacher Miles dismounted from his horse, hitch¬ 
ed him to a “swingin’ limb,” threw his saddle-bags 
over his arm, and proceeded to the meetin’-house 
where his flock awaited him. Miles was a stocky 
man, of medium height, with sandy hair and beard, 
and “showed his keep” in every line of face and 
figure. The beast he bestrode also bore witness to 
the generous portions of corn, oats, and buckwheat 


MOONSHINE 


37 


dealt out to him in his rounds, and to the good judg¬ 
ment of Brother Miles in his last swap. 

Before entering he paused a moment to shake 
hands with the men who occupied the steps, a log, 
and other points of vantage, and cast a longing eye 
to one side where two of the brethren were matching 
wits in a horse trade, then entered and took his place 
in the “pulpit.” 

The brothers straggled in behind him, one or two 
at a time, and took seats on their side of the room, 
as men and women never sat together, but like the 
“sheep and the goats” sat one on the right hand, 
the other on the left. 

When the Reverend had extracted from his saddle¬ 
bags the necessary hymn book and Bible he opened 
with the following notice: “As I come over the 
mountain this mornin’ I passed by brother Popkin’s 
b’ar pen, an’ ther’ war a b’ar in hit. I tuck a fence 
rail an’ jobbed his eyes out.” 

This was important information. The bear was 
in the pen and he had made it impossible for him 
to escape. They could go and get him at their leis¬ 
ure. 

So it was that the news was carried from place to 
place by these dispensers of religious food, and con¬ 
sumers of fried chicken, often being the only news 
heard for weeks, or even months. 


38 


MOONSHINE 


Kip was one of the most noted examples of the 
species. He could read, and his sermons consisted 
mainly of a string of Bible quotations interspersed 
with comments on their meaning, which would have 
brought tears to the eyes of our enlightened and 
experienced expounders of scripture, though his con¬ 
clusions may have been as instructive, perhaps as 
logical and useful, as theirs. 

It was, however, in his extempore prayers that 
Bro. Miles exhibited his talents to the greatest ad¬ 
vantage. Here he showed off his ability to strike 
a bargain, even with the Lord, and demonstrated 
that he was not a believer in silent supplication. He 
always began in a low tone, but as he warmed to his 
subject his voice was raised to a shout which could 
be heard a mile away, and made the very walls of the 
log meetin’-house tremble. 

His habit was to prefer mild requests for every¬ 
thing he or his hearers might need, or wish for, and 
make promises of future good conduct, provided the 
same should be forthcoming. 

On one occasion, after asking the Lord, in a most 
patronizing way, to come down and dispense various 
and sundry gifts and mercies, he added (it might 
be presumed in order to save the trouble of a second 
trip), “An’, Lord, while you is down here I wish’t 
you’d go an’ see ol’ man Grady. He’s pow’ful bad 


MOONSHINE 


39 


off. Jist go down th’ big road from my house twel 
yer cross th’ crick, an’ take th’ fust lef’ han’ turn. 
Yer can’t miss hit.” 

Miles was very lavish in promises to the Deity, 
but they always had a string tied to them. “Ef you’ll 
do hit, Lord.” He would not commit himself on 
any other ground. 

It was told that on one dark, rainy night, when 
riding along an exceedingly muddy road, he dropped 
his old red leather pocket-book which contained all 
his wealth, consisting of a note for $1.50, a much 
abused $1.00 bill and 35 cents in silver. Before he 
could check his horse he had gone some distance from 
the spot. He returned as near to the place as he 
could guess, dismounted and searched in the muddy 
road. Matches, he had none, and must needs feel 
over every inch of ground with his hands. For some 
time he groped about in the darkness with no other 
result than getting hands and feet thoroughly plas¬ 
tered with red clay mud. At last, in despair, he be¬ 
thought to seek the help of the Almighty, as most of 
us will do as a last resort. 

“Lord,” he said, “Please, Marster, he’p me find 
my pocket-book I done drapped in th’ mud. I done 
tried an’ can’t. Please, Marster; an’ ef you’ll he’p 
me fur t’ find hit—I’ll—I’ll—nev’r mind, Lord; I’ve 
got ’er.” 


40 


MOONSHINE 


In spite of these conditions, which to us appear 
crude, if not ridiculous, who can say that the simple 
mountaineer lacked knowledge of the essentials of 
religion necessary to guide his footsteps toward the 
Better Land, or that morally he was the inferior of 
those to whom is distributed more elaborate sys¬ 
tems of teaching and theology? 

On this occasion the slab benches of the meetin’- 
house were pretty well filled. 

Hymns were sung, as “lined out” by the preacher, 
for there were no books among the congregation, 
and even if there had been only a small proportion 
could have read them. 

Brother Miles read from the well-thumbed and 
travel-worn Bible, explaining each passage as he 
proceeded, and followed it up with one of his most 
elaborate prayers, in which he requested everything 
from good health and good “craps” for his flock, to 
freedom from the Devil and final attainment of 
Heaven, making, as usual, many promises of good 
behavior—for his congregation, their families, and 
friends—contingent upon receiving what had been 
asked for. 

Then came the telling of “experiences,” in which 
almost everyone had a say, each striving to outdo the 
others in telling of wonderful things which had come 
to them. At last old Sister Underdown, who felt 


MOONSHINE 


41 


that she must do her part, as well as that she must 
not be outdone by the others,; arose and said: “As I 
wer’ cornin’ ’long t’ meetin’, over by Brother Swan¬ 
son’s ’baccy-barn, I heard a pow’ful scratchin’ in ther 
leaves. Hit kep’ a-scratchin’ ari a-scratchin’, ari 
scratchin’. I didn’t know what hit mought be, but I 
’lowed hit wer’ a bug—an’ I ’lows yit hit wer’ a bug.” 

This sally was accepted for what it was worth, as 
had been the other tales told, and after singing an¬ 
other hymn the meeting was closed. 

The congregation now gathered in small groups, 
talked over various affairs and matters of interest, 
and some, who had come from a distance, produced, 
from wagon-box or saddle bag, lunches of corn bread, 
fried chicken, cake, and pie, which was rapidly con¬ 
sumed by the families interested, assisted by friends 
who had none—not the least among them being the 
able Bro. Miles. 

The preacher had numerous invitations to “stop 
with us-uns,” and, selecting the home where he knew 
he would fare best, departed with that family, and 
the meeting was over until “this day three weeks, 
whether or no.” 


Chapter IV 


“HIT MOUGHT BE YES, AN’ HIT MOUGHT 
BE NO” 

T he following night Bryson came to the Holler 
home for his answer. His good address and 
“fine talk” had made an impression on the simple 
mountain girl. Of that he was aware, and he came 
wearing his best clothes, and with a confident air, so 
was hardly prepared for the set-back which awaited 
him. 

Bryson loved the girl, so far as he was capable, 
but better still he loved the property of “Big Bill” 
which in due time would pass to his only daughter. 
He had, a few years before, left his home in the State 
of Tennessee, and with very good reasons for doing 
so. A little matter of signing another’s name to a 
paper had hastened his departure, and also caused 
him to assume the name of Bryson when he came to 
the Buck Creek country. 

It was not uncommon in those days for a man to 
come over the border line of these states, from one 
side or the other, and have no questions asked, and 
Bryson knew that here there was less chance that 
his identity would be discovered than in any other 
part of the country. 


42 


MOONSHINE 


43 


No rumor concerning him had ever reached the 
ears of those with whom he now came in contact and, 
as he had a pleasing manner and some “eddycashun,” 
he had many friends, not the least of these being big- 
hearted Bill Holler. 

Bryson was not long in seeing the advantage he 
possessed in this friendship and made the most of it, 
but because he knew the intimate relation which ex¬ 
isted between Bannard and Lindy had carried on his 
courtship most adroitly, so much so indeed that even 
“Big Bill,” and perhaps the girl herself, was not 
aware of his intentions until the trap was sprung. 

Bryson had purposely made his visit when he 
knew that Bannard could not by any possible chance 
be in his way, as it was him he most feared, not only 
in that he knew the girl was fond of him, but because 
he felt that for some reason John looked on him with 
suspicion. 

When he was told that he must wait for his an¬ 
swer “until ther craps was laid by” he was still con¬ 
fident, and said, “That means yes, of course, when 
the time comes?” 

“Hit don’t mean nothin’. Hit mought mean yes, 
and hit mought mean no,” was her answer. 

“Well,” replied Bryson, “that will not be so very 
long. I’ll run up to see you whenever I can, and we 
can talk over our plans. I am not afraid but that it 


44 


MOONSHINE 


will be ‘y es ’ when you make up your mind to give 
the answer. You have said that you loved me, and 
I know if that is the case you would not treat me 
badly. A Holler’s word, you know, is as good as 
his bond. Is not that so ?” 

“Hit is, Brooks,” replied the girl, “but I can’t say 
no mo’ now, exceptin’ that hit mought be yes, an’ hit 
mought be no.” 

Before leaving he learned that Bannard had been 
there the night before and at once located the cause 
of his failure to get the affirmative answer which he 
was so confident he would receive. It was plain to 
see that in some way, and for some cause, Bannard 
had check-mated him, and his crafty nature at once 
began to think up schemes to counteract the influence. 

He knew it would not for a moment do to say 
anything against John to either the girl or her father. 
He must pretend friendship with him, but work 
against him from the outside and in some way bring 
him into discredit or disgrace. So he reasoned as he 
walked home that night. It would be easy to get 
Bannard into trouble over his connection with the 
still, but how to do this without at the same time im¬ 
plicating “Big Bill” was not an easy question to solve. 
In any event John must be eliminated. That was 
plain, even if Holler had also to suffer. The fact 
that Bill had been his friend, and was the father of 


MOONSHINE 


45 


the girl he professed to love, must not stand in the 
way. After all, if both could be out of his way it 
would be so much the better. He must play safe, 
and for the benefit of Brooks Bryson alone. 

For some years, at least, this mountain retreat 
must be his home and place of refuge. He dared not 
go back to civilization for fear of being recognized 
and punished for the crime he had committed. So 
much time had already elapsed without detection or 
suspicion that apparently he was safe here, and each 
month and year added to that assurance, and estab¬ 
lished more firmly his assumed character. Yes, he 
must win, at any cost to others. 


Chapter V 


BETRAYED 

T wo days later, just as the sun was nearing the 
mountain tops to the west, Bill Holler arrived 
at the mill with his cart. Several sacks of meal and 
malt were soon loaded and he drove away. Some 
twenty minutes later John Bannard put the padlock 
on his mill door and took a path above the dam which 
led along the bank of the creek through the laurel, 
coming out in Bill Holler’s bottom, just above the 
shoals. Here Bill awaited him. The sacks were 
transferred to a small skiff which they dragged from 
a clump of bushes and launched on the still waters of 
the creek. Then they shoved off from the bank and 
paddled slowly up stream, at the end of the bottom 
disappearing in the dense laurel which overhung the 
creek from either bank. 

Some distance up a cliff rose from the water’s edge, 
over which flowed the little stream before mentioned. 
This was passed by and, just at the point where it 
began to break, the skiff was run alongside a large 
flat rock and its cargo unloaded. Each man then took 
a sack on his shoulder and, after climbing up the 
rocks some twenty feet, proceeded along a ledge 


46 


MOONSHINE 


47 


which terminated near the top of the cliff. They then 
returned for another load and after all was brought 
to this point made a second portage to the still-house. 

It was an ideal situation for a moonshine outfit, 
inaccessible from above, where the cliff again rose 
some forty feet, and also from below except by the 
one trail which all lay over rock where no foot-print 
was visible. 

Even the “slop,” or still refuse, used as food for 
stock, was carried down this trail by those sturdy 
mountaineers, placed in the boat and so transported 
to the open bottom, so there were no cattle or hog 
trails which might be followed to the still. What 
wonder that they deemed discovery well nigh im¬ 
possible. 

To provide against a possible emergency and give 
a chance for escape in case they should be discovered 
and attacked, a rough ladder led up the rocks in the 
rear to a cleft from which the top might be reached, 
and this ladder, once thrown down, none would be 
able to follow. 

The water was boiled and the mash made, which 
was left to ferment the usual period—about four 
days, depending on the temperature. 

One reason why the old moonshine whiskey was 
often superior to that made at a licensed still was 
the fact that it was almost always mashed in with 


48 


MOONSHINE 


pure hot water, whereas at the stills run regularly, 
the hot sour slop of one run was used to scald the 
meal for the next. This constitutes the difference 
between “sweet mash,” and “sour mash.” Often 
in former times certain brands of whiskey were ad¬ 
vertised as “sour mash,” when this was really no 
recommendation, the “sweet mash” being the better. 

Returning to where the horse was hitched the boat 
was put in the bushes and they drove slowly back 
across the bottom. The moon was coming over the 
mountains and it was quite light. 

Little had been said while the work was being done. 
Now Holler spoke: “Lindy done tol’ me, John, what 
you axed, an’ what she promised yer. She’s pow’ful 
sot on Bryson, John, but couldn’t help doin’ that 
much fur youse—jist like she would fer her brother, 
er her pap. Bryson ain’t ther man you is, John, but 
he’s a good lookin’ feller, talks fine, an’ has done tol’ 
Lindy all ther places they’ll go when they is married, 
an’ all what ther will be ter see. No, John, he ain’t 
ther man you is, but you knows how wimen critters 
’ll argify, an’ how they likes ter be muched an’ tol’ 
they is purty, an’ all them kin’er things. Yes, Lindy’s 
pow’ful sot on Bryson, an’ ’pears ter me as how ther’ 
ain’t much show fur youse. 

“I’m sorry, John, but as I done said, ther gal must 
have her head. Wimen critters is pow’ful like a hog 


THE STILLHOUSE 
































■■ • ' 




















































MOONSHINE 


49 


what gits inter a field, ther more you tries ter drive 
him ter ther hole whar he come in the more he runs 
t’other way, an’ hit takes a mighty sight of doggin’ 
an’ heatin’ ter make him find hit. 

“Lindy air a good gal, John, but all wimen critters 
is cu’rus an’ contrary.” 

Ignoring all these comments John replied: “You 
an’ me, Bill, is too damn honest. We don’t suspicion 
nobody. I done come t’ that way of thinkin’ sence I 
let Brooks Bryson come purt’ nigh takin’ Lindy ’way 
from me. 

“I’m tellin’ of yer that we’d better watch out. Ef 
Bryson would try ter do that he ain’t none too good 
ter do me, er you, any dirty trick.” 

“Bryson ain’t got no call ter do anythin’ agin’ me,” 
retorted Bill, “an’ he ain’t goin’ ter. As Lindy says, 
he’s a gentleman, an’ wouldn’t do no mean trick ter 
nobody.” 

“I ain’t so sure as you is, Bill,” said John. “I’ll 
give in as I hain’t got no reason fur hit, but I jist 
can’t git hit outen my head ther’s som’thin’ wrong 
with that feller, an’ ef youse ’ll wait you’ll see.” 

When they arrived at the end of the bottom field 
Bill said, “I ain’t goin’ ter work Kit t’morrer. I’ll 
jist turn her out.” Accordingly, Kit was unhitched 
from the cart, which was left standing by the bars 
of the pasture field, and the men walked on to the 
house. 


50 


MOONSHINE 


“Come in, John, and have a little of the old peach 
an’ honey.” They entered the kitchen and Bill care¬ 
fully made the mixture. “Jist like Pap us’ter fix 
hit,” he observed, “hit sure is good. Who’s that 
talkin’?” 

They went over to the other room and there found 
Bryson, who evidently considered it best, now that 
his position was known, to be as much in evidence as 
possible. Bill’s greeting was cordial enough, but 
Bannard was not able to disguise his feelings, except 
to the extent of saying stiffly, “Howdy, Bryson,” 
and soon took his leave. 

Very soon, according to mountain custom, the old¬ 
er folks left the room and Bryson and Lindy were 
alone. Bryson had noticed one thing—that both of 
the other men had meal on their clothes. With Ban¬ 
nard this was to be expected, but, he asked himself, 
why Holler also? What had they been doing to get 
covered with meal? 

“Your father must have been helping at the mill,” 
he said. “No, he ain’t,” quickly responded the girl, 
“they’ve bin—” and then realizing what she was 
about to say, she paused. “They’ve been where?” 
queried Bryson. You are not afraid to trust me 
are you, Lindy?” 

“No, Brooks, I ain’t afeard t’ trust yer,” she re¬ 
plied, “but I can’t say no mo’ bout hit.” 


MOONSHINE 


51 


“All right, little girl,” said Bryson soothingly, “it 
don’t make any difference what they were doing, it 
is none of my business.” 

When Bryson left the house he went down the 
road for a few hundred feet where he climbed the 
fence and cut across the pasture to the bars from 
which direction he knew the men had come. Here 
he found the cart, and saw what he expected—meal 
in the bottom of the rough bed. The moon was now 
well up in the sky and he had no difficulty in follow¬ 
ing the cart track back to the creek where he dis¬ 
covered the skiff, also with meal in its bottom. 

When Bryson reached the room in the house where 
he boarded he wrote a letter. It was addressed to 
“The U. S. Marshal, Statesville, N. C ” This he 
stamped and inclosed in another envelope addressed 
simply to “The Postmaster, at Statesville, N. C.,” 
with a note requesting that he forward the letter to 
correct address. A letter to the Marshal would at¬ 
tract attention, while one to the Postmaster would 
not. 

Bryson was too crafty to sign any name to this 
missive, or to run the risk of anyone seeing him in 
a compromising situation. It was merely a request 
that some officer be sent to that section to watch the 
miller, John Bannard, who was operating a still at 
some point up the creek above what was known as 


52 


MOONSHINE 


“the elbow.” It was further stated that the still was 
reached by boat, and described the place where it was 
concealed. 


Chapter VI 


THE “REVENUER” 

S ome days later, when Bannard closed the mill and 
went up to meet Bill at the boat landing, a man 
came cautiously out of the laurel near by and fol¬ 
lowed. When they took the boat and went up the 
creek the man kept nearly abreast of them until they 
entered the laurel. Here he was forced to pause as 
it was impossible to go up any farther on that side, 
but he did not give up. Instead he returned to the 
shoal, waded the creek, and made his way as best he 
could up stream on the other side. He worked 
through the woods above the laurel until some dis¬ 
tance beyond the point where the creek entered it, 
and where he could look over at the cliff and rocks 
on the opposite bank. Then he sat down and waited. 
He had been there nearly an hour before his vigil 
was rewarded by seeing a faint glow among the rocks, 
and a moment later, in the same spot, there was a 
shower of sparks that rose above the bushes. “Fir¬ 
ing up,” he muttered. “Well, I’ve got you located, 
John Bannard, and we’ll soon twist you out of that 
hole. 

“I wonder who it was that gave him away! Before 
I go any deeper I think I’ll find out.” 

53 


54 


MOONSHINE 


He retraced his steps down the mountain, again 
waded the shoal, and after passing the mill, mounted 
a powerful black horse which had been concealed 
in a thicket, and rode away. 

A few miles down toward where Buck Creek en¬ 
tered the river he rode up to a cabin, a wretched lit¬ 
tle hovel standing near the road, dismounted and 
knocked at the door. A voice from within demanded, 
“Who’s thar—an’ what-cher want?” “Philips,” was 
the reply. “I want to talk to you, Sam. Are you 
alone?” 

For answer “Sam” climbed out of bed and opened 
the door, kicked the remnants of fire with his bare 
foot and threw on a piece of “fat” pine which blazed 
up brightly. There was nothing in the cabin but a 
rickety bed, a still more rickety table, and a few 
roughly made chairs. Philip’s eyes searched the in¬ 
terior and then he said, “Sam, you’ve helped me be¬ 
fore. I want your help now.” “What’s fur me?” 
he inquired. “It might be as much as five dollars,” 
said Philips, “and some whiskey, if we get any.” 

“Who is hit youse is a’ter?” asked the man. “I 
don’t know,” replied Philips cautiously, “but I’ve got 
wind that some fellows are stillin’ over on the river, 
somewhere, and first I want to find out who gave the 
information, and if it is true. That is where I want 
you to help. You can go among all these people 


MOONSHINE 


55 


without being suspected—I can’t. Who is it up above 
here who can write, and a pretty good hand? I want 
to know that, and to get some of their writing—es¬ 
pecially their names.” 

“I dunno,” replied Sam, “ther’ hain’t many as 
kin write at all, an’ them as kin ain’t no great shakes. 
How’s I gwine ter find out fur youse?” 

“That’s up to you,” said Philips, “just so you bring 
me some of their writing—I mean from the few who 
can write well enough to put a letter together—with 
their names signed if possible, the money is yours. 
Get on the job tomorrow and come to the cross-roads 
below here at sundown. If there are not many around 
who can write, it ought to be easy.” 

“I’ll try hit,” said Sam. “Has yer got any lick- 
er?” “Yes,” said Philips, “I’ve got a little in my 
saddle-pockets, but I’m not going to give you much 
until the job is done. Then you can have all you 
want.” 

The whiskey was produced and Sam given a gen¬ 
erous dram, after which Philips rode away into the 
night. 

The life of a “revenuer” was anything but pleas¬ 
ant or safe, and only the hardiest men were selected 
for it. Richmond Philips had the reputation of al¬ 
ways getting his man when once he started on the 
trail, and deserved it. 


56 


MOONSHINE 


He made no move without first having made care¬ 
ful plans, and ran no risk if he could avoid it. How¬ 
ever, when emergency demanded, he was a cour¬ 
ageous fighter and never lost his head or made a false 
move. 

“I’d sure like to know who wrote that letter,” he 
said to himself as he rode along. “It’s unusual. 
These mountain people won’t go back on each other, 
nor can many of them write such a letter. I hope 
Sam Poole will bring me something to work on. He 
is lazy, and as no-account as they are made, but he’s 
sharp, and if there is a little money to be had for a 
thing like this he will go after it, though he won’t 
work for anybody. He may know all about this mat¬ 
ter now, but if I’d told him who I was after it might 
have shut his mouth tighter than twenty dollars could 
prize it: open.” 

The next night Sam Poole was at the cross-roads 
at the appointed time, and soon Philip rode up. 
“What luck?” he asked. “Where’s my five dollars?” 
was the answer. “That’s all right when you show 
me anything worth it,” said Philips. “What have 
you got?” 

“I done got three recommends,” said Sam, “I tol’ 
’em I were gwine ter ther’ settle-ment an’ hunt a job, 
an’ I wanted some recommends. They ’lowd I’d 
never work nohow, but ef I’d git outen ther’ country 


MOONSHINE 


57 


they’d say a-most anythin’ I wanted. I done got one 
from Tom Taylor, one from Ben Barrier, an’ one 
from ther’ Tennessy cuss what keeps ther sto’. I 
can’t read ’em, but I reckin they is all right.” 

One glance of Philips’s practiced eye was enough 
to convince him that he had what he wanted. How¬ 
ever, this he did not betray to Poole. “Well,” he 
said, “if this is the best you could do, here’s your five. 
Maybe I can use some of these, though it is not much 
to go on and I wish you had managed to get some 
more.” 

With all of five dollars and a pint flask of whiskey, 
Sam departed well satisfied with the result of his 
day’s “work.” 

As he rode along Philips examined the “recom¬ 
mend” given by Bryson carefully. It read: “To 
whom it may concern: The bearer, Sam Poole, says 
he desires to go to work! If you can get him to do 
any work please inform us, as he has never been 
known to do any around these parts. Brooks Bry¬ 
son.” 

Philips laughed. “The fellow has got a sense of 
humor,” he observed. “Now, why does he want to 
get one of his neighbors into trouble? That will 
show up, sooner or later; at any rate I know where 
to put my hand on the informer if I need to.” 


Chapter VII 


THE FIGHT AND CAPTURE OF THE STILL 


ATTERS at the Holler home went on about as 



L -L usual—too much so for the peace of mind of 
John Bannard. Bryson made regular visits and 
seemed to take it for granted that all was settled, 
and that his answer in the end would be favorable. 

“Big Bill” would assume no other attitude than 
that “the gal must be ther’ one ter decide,” and, as 
much as he thought of Bannard, made no move to 
influence Lindy in his behalf. Bryson’s pleasant man¬ 
ner and “fine talk” had made its impression on Holl¬ 
er and his wife as well as the girl. 

The matter had several times been discussed by 
the men when they were working together but Ban¬ 
nard made no progress as he was forced to admit that 
he had no real basis for his dislike of Lindy’s suitor. 
“I jist na’cherly suspicions him,” was all he could say. 

In spite of this situation, of which he was aware, 
and the confident attitude he assumed, Bryson still 
feared the influence John had over Lindy, and waited 
with considerable impatience for some sign that his 
letter had received attention. There was a rumor 
that a stranger had been seen riding through the 


58 


MOONSHINE 


59 


country but he did not connect this with his letter any 
more than the “recommend” he had given worthless 
Sam Poole. Indeed he considered his “recommend” 
a great joke, and told of it on every occasion with 
great glee. 

Several boat loads of meal had been transferred 
up the creek and gradually converted into whiskey. 
The last remaining corn was ground and the men 
prepared for the final run. 

The start was made earlier than usual, and it was 
not yet dark as they paddled their skiff up the placid 
waters of the creek. The trip had so often been made 
that they did not even think of being observed. Then, 
too, while they made it in a way they deemed secure 
from observation this was not done because they felt 
a sense of wrong, but rather that they were protecting 
their rights. 

However, they began to realize the risk they were 
running, especially Bannard, who seemed to feel that 
some evil would befall, just as he felt that Bryson 
was not what he pretended or seemed to be, though 
he could give no reason for either. 

“I heard at ther mill t’day, Bill,” said John, “as 
how ther revenuers come purt’ nigh gettin’ the Mor¬ 
ris boys, over on ther river. They seen ’em jist in 
time ter git. They lost their still an’ ’bout forty gal¬ 
lons. Somehow I’m ’feared they’ll come up this-a- 


60 


MOONSHINE 


way some time. We don’t make nothin’ much outen 
hit, an’ a’ter this year we’d better quit.” 

“Mabbe youse is right,” replied Bill. “I don’t 
mind quittin’, but I hates ter be made ter quit. We 
sho’ got a right ter make a little licker ef we wants 
ter. What we goin’ ter do with our apples this fall? 
Make ’em up inter apple butter, er cider ’em, an’ 
what would we do with all that truck ef we did?” 

“I dunno,” replied Bannard, “but somehow I feels 
like we’d better quit afore trouble comes of hit. I 
hates ter give up my rights jist as much as youse does, 
but we kin git along without stillin’, an’ we’d better 
quit hit a’ter this run.” 

They were close to the opening in the laurel and 
were not aware that from its dense shade peered the 
watchful eyes of Rich Philips, and that their last 
words reached his ears. 

“Pity,” he muttered, “to take those fellows now, 
when it’s their last run, but I’ve told about it at head¬ 
quarters, and got the boys here, so we will have to 
go ahead. I don’t like this d—n business and am 
going to get out of it. These fellows don’t really 
mean any harm and are both good men—a durned 
sight better than the skunk that told on them. I’d 
enjoy giving him what he ought to have much more 
than I will taking these boys to jail. They shall not 
be hurt, anyhow, if I can help it.” 


MOONSHINE 


61 


John and Bill soon had their load at the still and 
made up the fire. While the water was getting hot 
they sat on the rocks, smoked and talked. 

When at last the water boiled they began to make 
the mash, John carrying it and Bill stirring in the 
meal. 

Suddenly a stick cracked! The sound came from 
the bushes below them—near the path. 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Holler. Then, as some 
other sound caught his ear: “To the cliff, John, quick; 
get the rifle.” 

John grabbed the gun and followed Bill in a dash 
for the darkness and cover of the rocks behind, where 
the ladder would take them to safety. 

He was too late. Half a dozen forms sprang into 
the light. His one shot, fired at the foremost man, 
sent him to the ground, but at the same instant a bul¬ 
let struck him in the shoulder and he reeled backward 
into the arms of “Big Bill.” 

“Run, Bill, run,” he gasped, “they’ve done got me, 
run.” As he laid John gently down, he said in a 
fierce whisper, “I’ll never leave yer, John, let ’em 
come on.” 

They did, and with a rush. There was only such 
light as came from the burning logs in the furnace. 
The gigantic mountaineer was a formidable antago¬ 
nist, but there were still seven of the attacking party. 


62 


MOONSHINE 


“Don’t shoot, boys,” commanded Philips, “he can’t 
get away. Do you surrender?” 

For answer Holler sprang into their midst, and 
the fray began. It was fearful odds, but he had the 
strength of a demon. The first man his hands 
reached was picked from the ground like a child and 
hurled at the others, sending three of them down, 
and another received a smashing blow which broke 
his jaw and put him out of the fight for good. 

They were game, those men of Philips’, and though 
smashed and beaten again and again by the furious 
Holler, continued to come back and close In. 

Philips ordered repeatedly, “Don’t shoot, boys, 
don’t shoot,” but realizing that in the end the moun¬ 
taineer would best them all if something was not done 
to break his strength, stepped up behind and dealt 
him a blow on the head with his heavy revolver which 
brought him to his knees. 

In an instant they were on him, and bore him to 
the ground. Again and again he threw them off, 
but they came back with equal persistency and cour¬ 
age. 

Meanwhile Bannard, recovering from the first 
shock of his wound, was dragging himself slowly 
and painfully towards the struggling men. 

“I can’t help yer much, Bill,” he sobbed, “but I’m 
cornin’.” Nearing the fight at this time he rose on 


MOONSHINE 


63 


one elbow and hurled a large stone at the back of 
the man nearest him with all the remaining strength 
of his powerful arm. It struck him fair between the 
shoulders and he pitched forward on his face. 

Philips saw from whence came this attack, and 
that one more of his men was out of the fight. He 
could not strike a wounded man, but to save further 
crippling of his force the fight must be brought to a 
close at once, as the frenzied Holler showed no sign 
of weakening. 

Once more he brought the butt of his revolver 
down on the head of the mountaineer, who had risen 
to his feet and was throttling one of his opponents. 

This time the blow was delivered with such force 
that Bill sank insensible into the arms of his captors. 
He was soon securely bound, and then Bannard was 
brought out into the light, resisting, though feebly, 
and cursing the —— revenuers with all the breath 
he had left. 

“Youse has killed Bill, you sneakin’ hounds,” he 
moaned, “youse has killed Bill, an’ I couldn’t help 
him! Ef yer hadn’t shot me fust we’d have licked 
ther whole damned bunch, an’ yer knows hit.” 

“I truly believe you could,” said Philips, “just be 
quiet, will you, you wildcat, and let us see what we 
can do for you. Bill ain’t dead. He’ll be all right 
directly.” “Boys,” he asked, “how many of you are 



64 


MOONSHINE 


hurt, and how bad?” “Tom’s got a bullet through 
his leg,” replied one, “Rom is gruntin’ with a busted 
jaw, and the balance is pretty bad beat up, but able 
to travel. That grizzly came pretty near lickin’ the 
bunch alone, and if the other one had been in the 
fight we’d been done up for sure, lest we’d used our 
guns, which you wouldn’t let us do. A little more 
and we’d had to, or there would not have been any 
of us left even to shoot.” 

“I couldn’t, boys,” said Philips, “not against these 
men. They are too good to kill up, and I made up 
my mind it should not be done. I sure am sorry a 
stray bullet got this one.” 

All this time he was examining Bannard, who si¬ 
lently submitted after being convinced that Bill was 
not seriously hurt. 

“This man has got a ball through his chest,” he 
said, “a little high, and may not have hit a lung, but 
he’s in a bad fix and we must get him out of here at 
once y as well as the other fellows who are hurt. 

“John Bannard,” he asked, “is there no way out 
of this infernal place except by the creek?” “None,” 
replied John weakly, “ ’ceptin’ up ther rocks, an’ 
that’s hellish rough. How’d yer find ther way up?” 

“Watched you,” replied Philips, “two or three 
times. Well, if that is the only way—we must carry 
you down as soon as possible. Boys, split some pine 


MOONSHINE 


65 


and make a light. We can never take this man down 
that ledge in the dark, and we must fix him up a bit 
before we start.” 

The pine was split, the fire drawn from under the 
still and some thrown on it, so that the place was 
brightly illuminated. 

Philips, accustomed to such scenes, having had 
some army service, quickly rendered what would now 
be called “first aid,” for Bannard as well as his own 
wounded men. 

By this time Holler had regained his senses and, 
sitting propped up against the side of the house, 
glared at his captors, but said no word until the men 
began to move John, and he heard him groan. Then 
he spoke. 

“Ef you fellers has got any heart, turn me a-loose 
an’ let me carry John down. I can do hit better’n any 
of youse. I ain’t goin’ ter try t’ git away. I wouldn’t 
have fit yer ef yer hadn’t shot John fust. Turn me 
a-loose, I say.” 

For answer Philips strode to his side, cut the cords 
which bound him and helped him to arise. This he 
did a little stiffly and staggered as he walked, but 
he shook himself, like a horse after rolling on the 
ground, went over to Bannard and gently took him 
in his arms. “Come on,” he said, and led the way 
down the narrow path he knew so well. 


66 


MOONSHINE 


Torches had been lighted and the party slowly de¬ 
scended the ledge to the boat. “Hit won’t hold but 
three,” said Bill. “One of youse can come with me 
ef yer wants ter. I must git John ter the house.” 
Philips laughed. 

“All right, Captain,” he said. “I’ll go with you 
and help. The boys know how to get out of here. 
Get the horses, boys, and come on to the house where 
we can fix up Tom and Rom.” 

Bannard was put in the boat in as easy a position 
as possible and Bill paddled it swiftly down stream 
to the landing. Here the horse and cart awaited 
them, which fortunately contained a number of sacks. 
John was laid on these and Bill drove carefully over 
the bottom towards the house, Philips walking be¬ 
hind. 


Chapter VIII 


THE PROMISE BROKEN 

B rooks Bryson and Lindy sat on the porch of the 
Holler home that night while Mrs. Holler, by 
light of a tallow candle in the room, mended “Big 
Bill’s” coat. 

Bryson retained his air of confidence, though the 
girl still kept him in doubt as to what the answer was 
to be “when ther craps was laid by.” 

“Lindy,” he said, “when we are married we will 
go out and see the world, the big cities and all the 
fine things they contain. This is a pretty country 
but there is nothing here to live for. This is not liv¬ 
ing. Here you have nothing but what you eat and 
a few home-made clothes. You have no pleasures 
and no society. A girl like you should see more of 
real life and have all kinds of amusements. You will 
look so handsome in fine dresses that everyone will 
envy me the possession of such a wife.” 

Lindy was silent for some time, and then she said, 
“I don’t know ’bout all that, Brooks, an’ I don’t 
know as I wants hit. I knows ther’ hain’t no purtier 
country than this, an’ I’m ’feard I’d not like ter be 
whar ther’ was so many people ter pester of me. I 


67 


68 


MOONSHINE 


kin find my way anywhar in these mountings, but 
I’d git plum turned round in yer big cities. I hasn’t 
got much here; that’s so, but I has ’bout all I needs, 
an’ nobody shouldn’t want no mor’n that. Ef I wants 
close, I kin make mo’ any time, an’ ther kind I’m 
usen ter. Why, Brooks, I’d be a plum skeer-crow 
in some of them riggins like wer in that paper you 
done show’d me. I’d ruther stay right here whar 
I has ther woods, an’ ther crick, an’ ther mountings, 
whar I kin see ther purty laurel flowers a bloomin’ 
on ther’ sides, hear ther whippoorwills a-singin’ in the 
evenin’, an’ git waked up in ther mornin’ by ther 
robins an’ ther catbirds. I loves all them things, 
Brooks, an’ when— ef —we is married I wants ter 
stay whar I belongs.” 

“All right, little girl, “responded Bryson, seeing 
that his picture of life out in the big world had not 
proved so alluring as he expected, “if you want to 
stay here, why of course, here we will stay. Any place 
is good enough for me so long as you are there.” 

“You sure does talk fine,” said Lindy, charmed 
by what, to her, was elegance of speech. “I wish’t 
I could talk that-a-way.” 

“I’ll teach you, my dear,” said Bryson, “and then, 
when you can read well and find out about all there is 
in the world, perhaps you will want to go and see it.” 

“Ef lamin’ is goin’ ter make me sour on all I has,” 


MOONSHINE 


69 


said the girl, “I dunno as I wants hit, but mabbe I 
wouldn’t think so ef I knowed as much ’bout ever’ 
thing as you does.” 

“I am sure you would not,” said Bryson, “you 
would soon learn to like what other women—ladies, 
I mean—are fond of, dresses and jewelry, society 
and admiration.” 

“Mabbe youse is right,” replied Lindy, overcome 
by his superior logic and learning. “You knows so 
much, an’ has bin ’round so much, it’s like you knows 
’bout all of hit better’n me.” 

“I know I am right,” responded Bryson, much de¬ 
lighted with the progress he was making, “and I am 
going to show you that all I have said will be so. 
When we are married I am going to-” 

The sentence was never finished, for just then 
came faintly to their ears the crack of a rifle, then 
another, and still louder report. They were from up 
the creek in the direction of the still. 

Lindy started. She knew that her father and 
John Bannard had gone there that night with the last 
load of meal, and that there should be no gun fired 
unless there was trouble. She listened intently, but 
no further sound broke the stillness of the little val¬ 
ley. 

“What was that?” asked Bryson. “I heard some¬ 
body shoot,” she replied, “didn’t youse hear hit?” 



70 


MOONSHINE 


“Yes,” said he, “but what of it? Some fellows coon 
hunting, I suppose.” 

“No hit ain’t,” she replied quickly, “this ain’t 
ther time ter hunt coons, and nobody here hunts ’em 
with a rifle. I’m a’feard Pap’s in trouble.” 

Bryson feigned ignorance, and asked, “What 
trouble could he be in? Where is he?” 

“I can’t tell yer, Brooks,” said the girl, “I hain’t 
never tol’ yer nothin’ an’ I hain’t goin’ ter now. Don’t 
ax me anythin’ mo’!” 

“All right,” said Bryson, and then he tried to re¬ 
turn to their former line of conversation, but the 
girl was silent. She could think of no reason why 
shots should be fired over towards, if not at, the still 
unless her father and John had been detected in their 
operations and attacked. She could not be easy, nor 
think of anything else, no matter how hard Bryson 
tried to divert her mind. 

Time wore on, and there was no sign of the men 
returning until at last, down on the creek bank, she 
saw the flicker of a light, though why a light she 
could not even surmise, and soon her sensitive ear 
caught the sound of wheels down on the bottom 
road, which she knew was the cart returning, and she 
listened while it came up the hill and stopped at the 
bars behind the house. 

She was tense with excitement, but began to think 


MOONSHINE 


71 


her fears were groundless when Holler appeared, 
bearing in his arms the apparently dead body of John 
Bannard, and beside him walked a strange man. 

Then she knew—the revenuers had captured her 
father and John! John was wounded, or dead, and 
her father was a prisoner of this man! 

A flash of resentment and hate swept over her, 
but the calmness of her father quieted the feeling 
and brought her to herself. 

Holler came carefully up the steps and into the 
house, where he laid his burden on the bed and 
turned to his wife and Lindy, who stood pale and 
wild-eyed waiting to learn what dreadful thing had 
happened. 

“John’s hurt,” he said simply, “get some hot water 
and some truck fur bandages. There’ll be a couple 
mo’ along soon what’ll need doctorin’, too.” 

Lindy had been anxious and nervous while under 
suspense, now she was all action, and her nerves were 
steel. She took one hurried glance at Bannard’s pal¬ 
lid face, passed her hand over his brow, and, satisfied 
that he was yet living, flew to the kitchen and a crack¬ 
ling fire was soon under the kettle. Old linen was 
hunted up, and Mrs. Holler tore it in strips. Bill 
came in, poured some of the “peach” in a glass, and 
roused Bannard enough to get him to swallow it. 

This revived him somewhat and, when Lindy came 


72 


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in with the water and cloths, he smiled when she 
looked in his face and whispered, “All right, Lindy, 
gal, hit’s nothin’ much.” 

It was many miles to where a doctor lived and 
even if sent for he might be just as far in the other 
direction. Knowing this the men set about doing 
what they could themselves. John’s shirt was cut 
away and Philips examined him closely. “I hope,” 
said he, “that the ball went through. If it did, so 
much the better; if it lodged, or hit a bone and 
glanced, there will be trouble.” 

John was turned gently on his side and as Philips 
bent over him he uttered an exclamation of surprise 
and pleasure, for there, in the folds of cloth, lay 
the bullet. “Just went through,” he said; “good, only 
a clean hole to deal with. The water, girl, and the 
bandages.” 

Realizing that Philips was more efficient than they, 
the others left all to him, only helping as they were 
able. 

Bannard was soon made as comfortable as pos¬ 
sible, and with another swallow of “peach” yielded to 
exhaustion and fell asleep. 

Bryson had, from the first, tried to assist. Though 
he had plotted for this, he was stunned for the mo¬ 
ment when brought face to face with the result. 

However, he soon recovered his poise and tried 


MOONSHINE 


73 


to comfort and assure Lindy and Mrs. Holler. He 
must act the part he had assumed or his carefully 
made plan would end in failure. One word or look 
which would show his true feeling, and inward joy 
at Bannard’s downfall, would be fatal, even though 
his influence over the girl was now stronger than 
ever, and he felt that he had the situation well in 
hand. 

Up to this time the care of Bannard had been the 
one thought of all. Now Mrs. Holler noticed that 
there was blood on Bill’s neck, his bushy hair matted 
and bloody and his face pale and drawn with pain. 

“My God, Bill,” she exclaimed, “youse is hurt, 
too, an’ yer never said nothin’ ’bout hit.” 

“Hit’s nothin’, Jennie,” he said, with an attempt 
at a smile, “jist git me the pan an’ some water an’ 
I’ll fix hit all right. I snagged my head a little an’ 
hit needs washin’.” 

Philips again came to the front. “Better let me 
look at it,” he said, “maybe I can do better than you.” 

Examination revealed two long cuts in Holler’s 
scalp, now blood-clotted and badly swollen. Several 
stitches were taken in each by Philips, using an or¬ 
dinary needle and thread, and his head was washed 
and well bandaged. 

“How you could fight after getting either one of 
these I don’t see,” he remarked while sewing them 


74 


MOONSHINE 


up, “you are a wonder for strength and endurance, 
as well as courage. A man who can stand up and 
fight seven, as you did, is a real man. I take off my 
hat to you, Bill Holler.” 

Soon after this the other men rode up and were 
attended as best could be done. Philips decided that 
the next day the more seriously injured must be taken 
to where they could have expert medical attention 
as the bullet fired by John was still in the man’s leg, 
and the broken jaw of the other must be set properly. 

It was well past midnight, and all must remain at 
the Holler house until day. The injured were given 
the beds and the others took blankets and bunked 
on the floor of the rooms or porch to gain a little 
much-needed sleep and rest. 

Bryson remained, and whenever he could, had a 
word with Lindy, continually offering to help in what 
she was doing. At last all were stowed for the rest 
of the night and he prepared to take his leave. 
“Where are you going to sleep, Lindy?” he inquired.” 

“Sleep!” exclaimed the girl. “Do you think I can 
sleep after all this, an’ with Pap an’ John in ther fix 
they is? I’m not goin’ ter sleep. I’ll stay up an’ 
watch ther balance of ther night. I couldn’t sleep, 
nohow. What’ll they do with Pap, an’ John?” 

“I am afraid they will take them down to jail,” 
replied Bryson, “there is nothing else these men can 


MOONSHINE 


75 


do, and what is done with all those they catch making 
whiskey.” 

“My God!” said Lindy, “yer don’t think that, 
does yer? What would come of me an’ Mam, an’ 
John’s old uncle Tom, ef they tuck both on ’em?” 

“I’ll take care of you, Lindy, dear,” said Bryson 
quickly, “only you must give me the right to do it. 
Say ‘yes’ now, and no matter what comes you will 
have me to protect you and your mother. You need 
not wait as you expected to do. All is changed now, 
and you will need me more than ever. Say ‘yes’ now, 
and leave the rest to me.” 

“O, my God!” sobbed the girl, her nerve giving 
way under the strain of the trouble and perplexity. 
“What ever is we goin’ ter do, Brooks? Hit’s too 
cruel ter take Pap, an’ John from us this-a-way. 
’Pears like hit’s mor’n I kin stan’, but I must keep up 
an’ not let Pap an’ Mam think I done give in. I jist 
na’churly must have somebody, Brooks. Youse has 
bin pow’ful good ter me, an’ yer will be, won’t yer?” 

“I will be, of course,” said Bryson. “Is it ‘yes,’ 
Lindy?” “Yes,” said the girl, simply, “I thinks as 
how Pap 11 feel better ’bout me ef he has ter go way, 
an’ knows I has you ter look a’ter me, an’ Mam. Yes, 
Brooks, ef Pap has ter go.” 

Thus it was settled, and Bryson took his departure 
well satisfied that his scheme had worked so well. 


76 


MOONSHINE 


“I have won out,” he said to himself. “They can’t 
fail to send both of them up for a year or two. Two 
charges, making whiskey and resisting arrest, if no 
worse. It will go hard with both, but harder on 
Bannard, just as I want it to, because he shot one of 
the officers. By the time they get out I will have 
things all going my way. That’s all right, B. B., you 
are a smart one.” 


Chapter IX 


THE WORD OF A MOUNTAINEER 

TN the morning all were early astir. Mrs. Holler, 
her eyes red with weeping, showed that she had 
passed a sleepless night of torture. Lindy, who had 
spent the remaining hours of darkness by the bedside 
of her father and Bannard, moved quietly about get¬ 
ting breakfast, her face set and drawn, but with an 
air of stern determination well worthy of the stock 
from which she sprung. 

After breakfast she returned to the sick room, and 
was bending over John who still slept heavily, when 
Philips entered. At first she drew proudly back, but 
remembering all that he had done for both John and 
her father, faintly smiled and asked: “Mr. Revenuer, 
is John much hurted?” 

“He’s got a pretty bad wound, Miss,” said the 
officer, “but I don’t think it is serious, if he has good 
care, which I am; sure you will give him.” 

Just then Bannard opened his eyes and murmured 
faintly, “Lindy, gal,” “Yes, John,” she said, “I’m 
here an’ I ain’t goin’ ter leave yer.” 

“Lindy, gal,” came again, as his eyes wandered 
from one to the other, “yer goin’ ter give me a 


77 


78 


MOONSHINE 


chance, yer knows what yer done said. Bill, I toV 
yer ther—an’ Bryson ain’t good enough, ner me 
nuther. Run, Bill, thar they is! I can’t help yer 
much, Bill, but I’m cornin’.” 

“A little touch of fever,” said Philips, “but that 
will pass, Miss. Who was it that he was talking about 
that was not ‘good enough,’ Bryson?” 

“That’s what he done said,” replied Lindy. “He 
don’t like Brooks fur nothin’, but he ain’t got nothin’ 
agin’ him, an’ Brooks is a gentleman.” 

“Yes, I see,” said Philips. 

It was plain to him now. This simple, sturdy 
mountain man had stood in the way of Bryson, and 
that was why he got him into trouble. “Give a calf 
enough rope and he’ll hang himself,” he quoted. “I 
think this one’s rope is long enough to do the job; if 
not, I’ll splice it.” 

Horses were now saddled and the men got ready 
to move. Two were ordered to return to the still- 
house, dump out the mash and any whiskey found, 
knock a hole in the bottom of the still and bring away 
the cap and worm. 

Holler’s wagon was converted into an ambulance 
for the wounded revenue men and he himself placed 
straw and blankets in the bed to make them as com¬ 
fortable as possible on the long, hard trip over the 
mountain roads. 


MOONSHINE 


79 


These details attended to, Philips and Holler went 
to the house to bring out the man who was unable to 
walk. Standing by John’s bed Bill inquired, “What 
you-all goin’ ter do ’bout us-uns?” 

“Why,” said Philips, “of course I shall have to 
take you along. I can’t move Bannard, but I’ll come 
back for him as soon as he is able to travel. You 
know that you are under arrest, and I must take you 
to Statesville for trial. Pm sorry, Holler; if I’d 
known you men as I know you now, I’d have quit my 
job rather than come within ten miles of here. I 
sure hate to take such men as you to jail, but I must 
see that you are brought to trial. 

“I have let you go free on your word that you 
would not try to escape, and so you shall be until I 
turn you over to the Marshal. But I must take you. 
You see that?” 

After a few moments’ thought, Bill responded, 
“You jist na’cherly has ter. Hit’s your job. We 
thinks we has a right ter do as we please with our 
co’n an’ apples an’ peaches, but me an’ John had ’bout 
agreed as how as hit wer’ agin’ ther law, we was go¬ 
in’ ter quit. We hain’t bin pestered much with law 
up here, but ef hit has ter come an’ pester us, we don’t 
want ter be fitin’ hit all ther time. Howsomever, 
youse ain’t got nothin’ ter do with that. Me an’ 
John ’ll have ter stan’ trial, an’ ef you-all ’ll jist tell 


80 


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us when ter come down t’ Statesville, we’ll be thar.” 

“But,” said Philips, “I’ve arrested you and must 
take you with me.” 

“I jist can’t go now,” replied the honest mountain¬ 
eer, “my co’n needs workin’, an’ ther’ ain’t nobody 
ter tend t’ ther stock. ’Sides that, while John’s laid 
up, I’ll have ter tend ther mill some, er none of ther 
folks ’round ’ll have any bread. Don’t you see as 
how I can’t go now? I done tol’ yer I wer’ not goin’ 
ter try ter git away, an’ I hain’t. Now I’m tellin’ of 
yer that when youse wants us we’ll come. Ef my 
word wer good last night hit’s good now.” 

Bannard, in a weak voice spoke from the bed, 
“Ef Bill Holler says hit, hit’s so. Bill never lied ter 
nobody.” 

Philips laughed. “I’ve had some curious cases to 
deal with in my time,” said he, “but this beats them 
all. In doing this I will be exceeding my authority, 
but I am going to take your word for a bond, and let 
you stay. I’ll come up for you, or let you know when 
you are wanted for trial.” 

“I’ve allers heard,” said Bill, “as how a revenuer 
was pow’ful mean an’ ornery; mabbe some of ’em is, 
but youse hain’t. I fit you-all, an’ in coase would do 
hit agen, but I’m glad I never hurted none of yer no 
wus.” 

When they were ready to leave, Philips entered 
the house, spoke a few words to Mrs. Holler, and 


MOONSHINE 


81 


then to Lindy he said, “Miss, take good care of that 
man on the bed—you will need him some day, or I 
miss my guess.” Then to Bannard, “Quiet is the 
word for you, Bannard, and in a few weeks you’ll 
be as good as new. I’ll let you know when to come 
down for trial.” 

“I’ll be thar, mister,” said John, “ef I is livin\” 

Before mounting his horse Philips stepped up to 
Holler and extended his hand. “Will you shake 
hands with a damn revenuer?” he said. Without a 
moment’s hesitation “Big Bill” put out his enormous 
paw, and gave him such a grip that he winced. It 
was a novel experience to Rich Philips, and as he 
swung himself into the saddle a tear glistened in his 
eye. 

“If there is anything Rich Philips can do to make 
the sentence light for these fellows, or any influence 
he can bring to bear to get them off, it shall be done,” 
he said half aloud, “and one thing sure, I’m going to 
spoil the game of Mr. Brooks Bryson. I am going 
to fix it so that I know what is going on up here from 
time to time, so if he goes too far I can check him up. 
I’ve got that pretty ‘recommend’ he wrote for Sam, 
and his letter to us, in the same hand, and if I show 
them to these people his jig is up. If he gets out with 
a whole skin he’ll be lucky. Either Holler or Ban¬ 
nard would break him in two and throw away the 
pieces.” 


Chapter X 


“MURDER WILL OUT” 
hen Rich Philips reported the result of his 



VV raid, and that he had not brought his prisoners 
with him, his chief stared at him in astonishment. 

“You don’t mean to say, Philips, that after all the 
trouble you took, and the fight you had, you just let 
both of those fellows get away?” 

“No, I do not,” said Philips; “I have not let them 
get away. They are just as safe as if they were 
chained and double-locked in a cell. Whenever they 
are w T anted I will have them here. One is flat on his 
back and can’t be moved for weeks. I could not 
bring him, or stay and watch him, and they have 
given me their word that they will come when they 
are wanted.” 

The chief sneered: “And you believe it, Philips? 
I thought you too old a hand at the game to swallow 
such bait. I will hold you responsible, remember 
that.” Later that day he called Philips and said: 
“I want you to go up to Burke. County and get some 
papers from Sheriff Brittain’s office. I’ll tell you 
what I want, and you can look through his files and 
get it, if it’s there.” 


82 


MOONSHINE 


83 


The following day Philips departed for Burke and 
on his arrival set to work on the files of the sheriff’s 
office to, if possible, get out what was desired. As 
is usually the case in a county court house the rec¬ 
ords and papers were not in such a condition that 
any one could be readily located, and he searched all 
day without result. Again the next day he returned 
to his task, and at the suggestion of a clerk, looked 
over some bundles of papers which had been tied up 
and thrown aside as useless. There were all kinds 
of notices and circulars, amongst them some with pic¬ 
tures of persons “wanted” by the authorities in dif¬ 
ferent places. Several of these he examined and at 
last held one in his hand which he gazed at intently, 
and muttered, “Where have I seen that face?” And 
then exclaimed, “By all the gods and fiends, it’s 
Bryson!’ He’s shaved now, but it’s him, or I’m a 
blind man.” 

The picture was of a rather handsome man with 
a dark mustache, and the circular read: 

$500.00 REWARD 

will be paid for the arrest and delivery of Beverly B. Burton, 
whose picture appears above. Wanted for forgery and embez¬ 
zlement; 5 feet 8 inches in height; weight, about 165 lbs. 
Dark hair and eyes, and when he left wore mustache with 
slight upward turn at the ends. Pleasing personality and a 


84 


MOONSHINE 


good mixer. Has good teeth which he shows all across when 
he smiles. If located, or arrested, communicate with, 
William Travis, 

Sheriff, - Co., Tenn. 

April 24, 1881. 

The date was a little over two years back, about 
the time when Bryson had made his appearance on 
Buck Creek. 

“Did they ever catch this man?” Philips inquired 
of the clerk. “Never that I heard of,” was the re¬ 
ply. “I understood he was seen in South Carolina 
a few weeks afterwards, but was never apprehended. 
He was a slick one. Forged the name of his employer 
to some big checks, padded the books and skipped. 
He got away all right, and they’ll never get him 
now.” 

“Probably not,” said Philips, “but I’d like to keep 
this circular.” “All right,” said the clerk, “it was 
posted for about six months, and then stuck in there. 
It’s no good to us now.” 

Philips pocketed the paper, continued his search, 
and at last obtained the information he sought. 

That night he wrote the sheriff of - Co., 

Tenn., the following letter: 

Morganton, N. C., June 14, 1883. 

Dear Sir: 

Referring to your poster sent out April 24, 1881, offering 
$500.00 reward for Beverly B. Burton, wanted in your county 




MOONSHINE 


85 


for forgery and embezzlement, I believe I can put my hands 
on your man. If he has not at this date been apprehended, 
communicate with Richmond Philips, Statesville. N. C., and 
forward all available information and means of identification, 
especially specimens of his writing, and signature. 

(Signed) Richmond Philips. 
William Travis, Sheriff, -Co., Tenn. 

Some days after his return to Iredell County, Phil¬ 
ips received this reply: 


-Co., Tenn., June 20, 1883. 

Dear Sir: 

In reply to yours of 14th, relative to Beverly B. Burton, 
I have to inform you that no trace of him has ever been found. 
He was heard of in South Carolina some weeks after he dis¬ 
appeared, and it is thought went to Texas. 

I am afraid you are on a blind trail, but enclose his latest 
photograph and some of his writing. I may add that he was 
quite an expert with the pen, and able to change his style 
of writing, but in one thing he never varied—that was in 
the formation of the capital B, which was three times re¬ 
peated in his name. You will observe this in all the speci¬ 
mens sent. 

Yours, etc., 

William Travis, Sheriff. 

Richmond Philips, 

Statesville, N. C. 

P. S. The reward stands should you be fortunate enough 
to nab your man. 

Philips produced the “recommend” Bryson had 
given to Sam Poole, and placed it alongside the docu¬ 
ments sent. The writing was in some respects dif- 




86 


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ferent, but as the sheriff had stated, the initials were 
the same in each instance. Comparison of the photo¬ 
graphs and picture on the poster was also convinc¬ 
ing. Brooks Bryson was without doubt the Beverly 
B. Burton wanted. “I’ve got him,” said Philips; 
“I’ll soon be going up after Holler and Bannard. 
When I come back Burton comes with me, and he 
can stay in jail here until they come after him, or I 
get time to take him over there.” 


Chapter XI 


IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


he Holler home was now a dismal place. “Big 



Bill” went about his work in a listless way, with 
aching head and aching heart. Mrs. Holler, always 
quiet and unobtrusive, moved mechanically, and with 
tears streaming down her cheeks performed her usual 
duties. There was with her no loud lamentation, no 
complaint, or expression of resentment. She was 
crushed in spirit, and despairing, to think that her 
Bill would have to be tried like a common criminal, 
and probably be sent to prison. 

John Bannard lay muttering in delirium, and upon 
Lindy most of the responsibility devolved. Though 
her youth and splendid physical condition enabled 
her to bear the strain with surprising fortitude, anx¬ 
iety for John almost overcame her. 

The news of the fight and arrest had been in some 
way carried to the few nearer neighbors, and soon 
they began to arrive, some to offer what assistance 
they could render, others, as is usually the case at 
such times, to ask questions to satisfy a morbid 
curiosity. 

Lindy stood by John’s bedside and listened to his 


87 


88 


MOONSHINE 


mutterings. Every word tore her heart with re¬ 
morse, for there was but the one theme, gone over 
and over again. 

“I knowd hit, Lindy, gal. I knowd you’d give me 
a chance, me as has loved yer all yer life.—Look out 
Bill!—He ain’t good enough for my Lindy, Bill— 
Thar’s a yaller streak somewhars, an’ hit’ll show. 

-Bill, I can’t do much ter help yer, but I’m 

cornin’.” 

Young Alex Denton had entered the room and 
stood by her side. “John’s pow’ful bad off, hain’t 
he?” he said. “Wish’t I could help yer some, Lindy.” 

“John is worse,” said the girl in despair. “My 
God! I’m ’feard he’ll die. Go ketch our Kit, Alex, 
an’ ride fast as yer can fur ther doctor. Don’t come 
back without him ef yer has ter ride all over ther 
county.” 

“I’ll fotch ’im, Lindy,” said the boy, “I’d do 
a-most anythin’ fur youse, an’ fur him.” Then he 
turned and ran from the house, and in a few moments 
Lindy heard the sound of Kit’s feet as Alex put her 
in a lope and urged her over the stony road. 

“My God,” she prayed, “don’t take John like 
yer took brother Bill. I can’t git along without him.” 

Word had been sent to John’s old uncle, with whom 
he lived, and he came in and stood by the bedside. 
For a long time his grief was silent, then he broke 



MOONSHINE 


89 


forth fiercely—“Ther d—n dirty revenuers, t’ mur¬ 
der my boy this-a-way, him as never done nobody no 
harm; an’ never give him no chance.” “Chance?” 
echoed John. “She said she’d give me a chance, an’ 
she’ll do hit. Bill Holler’s gal won’t lie, an’ ef Bill 
said hit, hit’s so.” 

“What does he mean?” asked the old man. Lindy 
could bear no more, and taking him by the arm led 
him sobbing from the room. 

All through the long day the girl watched beside 
the bed, prayed, and waited for the arrival of the 
doctor. This was often the way, even in the most 
urgent and desperate cases. The doctor could not be 
everywhere he was needed at the same time, and gen¬ 
erally many miles had to be ridden after the call came. 
It was nearly dark when he and Alex rode up. 

“I done got ’im,” said the boy, “but I had ter 
ride purt’ nigh all over ther county ter find ’im.” 

The doctor’s opinion of John’s condition was not 
reassuring. “He’s in a bad way now,” he said, “but 
we must pull him through. D—n those revenue 
devils. But you say one of them fixed him up as best 
he could, and if he had not had that attention he’d 
have been a goner.” 

All night long the faithful country doctor remain¬ 
ed by the bedside. He persuaded Lindy to take 
some rest, and, from sheer exhaustion, she slept a 


90 


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few hours, but was back on her post just as day was 
breaking. 

Bryson had come up the night before, shortly after 
dark, but as he was unable to entice Lindy from the 
sick room he did not remain long, leaving with a 
feeling that even yet John Bannard stood like a rock 
in his path. Secretly he wished John might die, but 
outwardly he must profess sympathy, and show a 
disposition to help in the present crisis so far as he 
could. 

By morning John’s fever had somewhat abated 
and the doctor pronounced his general condition im¬ 
proved, but cautioned the family that they must 
watch him carefully and, leaving medicine to be given 
at stated intervals, he mounted his horse and set out 
to visit a patient some fifteen miles distant. 

“I’ll be back by here sometime this evening, or 
tonight,” he said, “and by then I hope to find him 
much better.” 

So, after a hard day and a sleepless and anxious 
night, did this old hero go at the call of duty. Of all 
those who, at the sounding of the last trump, are 
adjudged to deserve a crown of glory, surely the 
mountain country doctor should be given first place. 
He answers the call of suffering humanity without 
murmur or excuse. No night is too dark, cold, or 
wet for him to go to the relief of the most humble 


MOONSHINE 


91 


and poor of his patients. Over rough and muddy 
roads and mountain trails, fording dangerous 
streams and braving storm and tempest, goes the 
mountain doctor, to, in his humble way, bring hope 
to fainting hearts, relief to the suffering, speak 
words of comfort and cheer, or close the eyes of the 
dead, and all this for a pittance, or often, nothing. 
All honor to this hero of heroes—the country doctor 
of the mountains. 

Holler ran the mill part of the morning and worked 
courageously in the field most of the afternoon. “I 
must git things in shape, ef I has ter go ’way,” he said. 
On reaching the house he looked into Lindy’s anxious 
face and inquired, “How’s John ?” “He ain’t no bet¬ 
ter as I kin see,” she replied, “exceptin’ he’s quit a- 
talkin’ ’bout all sorts of things. Pap,” she continued, 
“when—when you has ter go ’way, what’s me an’ 
Mam goin’ ter do ?” 

Bill hesitated, and stood regarding her with blood¬ 
shot eyes, as if half dazed by her question. She went 
on, “Pap, Brooks says as how he’ll take keer of us- 
uns then—but—but I’ll have ter marry him so he’ll 
have ther right ter do hit. I don’t see no other way, 
Pap, an’—I done tol’ Brooks I would—afore yer 

go-” 

Holler started, and drew his hand across his eyes, 
as if to clear his brain. Then he said slowly, “Lindy, 


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I hain’t got nothin’ ter say agin hit. Ef I has ter be 
took away from youse, an John, too, hit mought be 
best, an’ youse is ther one ter settle hit, not me. One 
thing I wants ter tell yer. Don’t say nothin’ ter John 
’bout hit twel he’s strong ernough ter stand hit—er— 
hit’ll kill him. John thinks a power o’ youse an’ was 
hopin’ you’d wait a spell. Don’t say nothin’ ter John, 
ner let Bryson do hit nuther.” 

Thus between two fires, and shaken by conflicting 
emotions, Lindy covered her face with her hands 
and burst into tears. 

When the doctor arrived late that evening his re¬ 
port was favorable. He pronounced the patient much 
better, and about out of danger, and went on his way 
with the promise to “come by in a day or so.” 

Bryson came up in the evening and Mrs. Holler 
was allowed to take Lindy’s place, “fur a spell, while 
I sees Brooks.” 

“I done tol’ Pap, Brooks,” she said. 

“What did he say?” inquired Bryson, eagerly. 

“He ’lowed hit mought be best ef him an’ John 
has ter go ’way,” she replied. “Why not now, Lindy?” 
he inquired. “Why wait until the officers come for 
them? That will be a sad time for a wedding.” 

“Sad!” said the girl, “yes, hit will be sad, but I 
’lows hit ain’t goin’ ter be no wus’n hit is now. Hit 
couldn’t be no wus. No, Brooks, I’m goin’ ter stick 


MOONSHINE 


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by Pap an’ John tel they has ter go, er tel I knows 
they has ter go.” 

Bryson was disappointed, and considerably vexed. 
He did not relish that John was considered in the 
case at all and made up his mind to take still further 
steps to eliminate him. 


Chapter XII 


THE “YALLER STREAK” 

S o the days wore on. John improved but slowly 
at first, but his iron constitution asserted itself, 
and when once on the mend he gained rapidly and 
was soon able to go home and attend to some mat¬ 
ters at the mill. 

Bill worked doggedly on the farm and Lindy did 
her full share. “Em jist bound ter help Pap,” she 
told Bryson, “tel ther craps is in. When I tol’ yer 
‘yes’ without waitin’ tel then hit was bekase I ’lowed 
ther revenuers was gwine ter take Pap an’ John next 
day, an’ I war all shook up.” 

The short summer waned and autumn came on; 
fodder and hay were saved, corn was gathered and 
shucked, and still no summons came for the men to 
appear at court. 

Bryson came up rather earlier than usual one even¬ 
ing. “I’ve found out when the officers will come for 
your father and Bannard,” he said. Court is to be 
held the first week in October, and they will have 
to be there before that time. We must be married 
before they come. It would not do to wait until they 
were here and everything stirred up. You know you 


94 


MOONSHINE 


95 


said you would consent as soon as you knew when 
they were going. Now you know and there is no 
reason for delay. We will not say anything to your 
father, and just give him a surprise when we are 
ready, though you can tell your mother.” 

Poor Lindy! She knew not how to resist the adroit 
moves and seemingly unanswerable arguments of her 
lover, so with many misgivings consented to his plan. 

Nothing had been said to John of Lindy’s de¬ 
cision and he, in his trusting innocence, had not for a 
long time even reminded her of her promise to give 
him a “chance” before the final word was spoken. 

Now John must be told, yet she dreaded the ordeal 
and continued to put off doing so. The matter, how¬ 
ever, was decided for her in a way she did not antici¬ 
pate. 

Bryson stopped at the mill one evening, where John 
sat smoking his pipe as on a former occasion. He 
soon managed to guide the conversation around to 
the subject of the arrest, and promise to appear when 
wanted. 

“If I were you, Bannard,” he said, “I would just 
get out until this thing blew over. If you go to court 
you will sure be convicted and sent to prison for a 
year or more. You was not the one who made the 
promise to go, and I don’t see why you should stand 
up to what Holler promised for you. If he is fool 


96 


MOONSHINE 


enough to put his foot in the trap that is no reason 
why you should. If I were you I’d skip, and let them 
whistle for you until they were tired.” 

John had risen from his seat while this was being 
said. His face flushed and his eyes glittered. 

“Brooks Bryson,” he said, “I done tol’ Bill you 
had a yaller streak; I believed hit then; now I knows 
hit. Ef yer word wouldn’t be good fur nothin’, mine 
is. I done tol’ Bill, too, as how youse wasn’t good 
’nough fur his gal, an’ this proves hit. I hopes Lindy 
won’t have nothin’ mo’ ter do with yer, fur yer ain’t 
fitten ter ’sociate with her.” 

Bryson laughed. “Since you talk that way,” he 
said, “I might as well tell you that Lindy has prom¬ 
ised to marry me before the first of October, 
though we have not said 1 anything about it yet to any¬ 
one.” 

“You lie!” retorted Bannard. “She promised to 
wait until the craps was all in befo’ she even give 
you an answer—yes er no.” 

“Well,” said Bryson, turning away, “ask her. I 
tried to do you a good turn, and save your bacon, 
and this is what I get for it. Go and ask her. You 
will have to take her word for it if you won’t take 
mine.” 

“I will ask her, an’ right now,” said Bannard hot¬ 
ly, “an’ ef you has lied, as I believes you has, I’ll 
twist yer d—n neck like I would a chicken’s.” 


MOONSHINE 


97 


He shut off the water from the wheel, sprung the 
lock on the door and strode rapidly up the road, 
his heart filled with anger and resentment, and with 
the full determination to return and carry out his 
threat, for he did not, for a moment, believe that he 
had been told the truth. 

When he reached the house he sought out the girl 
and came at once to the point. She saw that he was 
angry, and paled before his searching gaze. 

“Bryson,” he began, “done tol’ me a lie. A d—n 
mean lie. He said as how youse had promised ter 
marry him afore the fust of nex’ month. 

“I done tol’ him I knowd hit war a lie, an’ he 
’lowed I’d better ax youse. I jist wants yer word on 
that, an’ I’ll ’ten ter ther rest.” 

John had, of course, expected indignant denial, but 
saw at once that this was not to be his answer. Anger 
gave place to astonishment and grief as he stood 
waiting for her to speak. 

“I thought as how youse an’ Pap was goin’ away 
right off,” she said feebly, “ther war nobody ter look 
out fer me an’ Mam.” 

“Then hit’s so, Lindy, gal,” said John slowly, and 
with evident distress, “an’ yer ain’t give me ther 
chance yer done promised?” 

“John, John,” sobbed the bewildered girl, “hit 
’peard like as thar warn’t nothin’ else ter do, Pap 
a goin’ ter jail, an’ youse a-dyin’.” 


98 


MOONSHINE 


John turned away, utterly crushed, and walked 
slowly through the bars and down the road. He could 
not bring himself to realize the fact that the girl in 
whom he had put such implicit trust had betrayed 
that trust and not given the “chance” she had prom¬ 
ised. 

However, in this he did not in his heart condemn 
her, nor feel resentment towards her for the treat¬ 
ment he had received. 

“Bryson,” he growled, “hit’s that d—n cur-dog 
Bryson, with his fine talk an’ purty face as has done 
hit. Pore gal! Howsomever, I done said as how 
he shouldn’t have her, an’ by G—d, he shan’t.” 

Just at the foot of the hill he met Bill coming up 
w T ith a load of corn. He walked to the side of the 
wagon, and, laying his hand on Bill’s, said, “Bill, 
Lindy done tol’ me she’s goin’ ter marry Bryson, an’ 
afore ther fust of ther month. Youse didn’t know 
hit?” 

“No,” said Holler, “I knowd she’d done tol’ him 
she’d marry him afore we-uns has ter go ter co’t, but 
never heard nothin’ ’bout ther fust of ther month. 
I have ben aimin’ ter say som’thin’ ter youse ’bout 
hit, but John, I jist couldn’t. I knowd how hard 
you’d take hit. I couldn’t do nothin’, John. As I 
done tol’ yer, hit’s ther gal as must say. Bryson 
mought be like youse says, yaller an’ ornery, but when 


MOONSHINE 


99 


a gal takes a notion t’ a feller hit don’t ’pear ter mat¬ 
ter how mean an’ ornery he is. She jist holds on like 
er bull pup ter a hog’s year, even ef he drags her in 
ther dirt, an’ messes her all up. Hit’s cu’rus, John, 
but hit’s so. A’ter they*s bin drug ’round a spell 
the’r holt mought tear out, but they never turn a- 
loose.” 

“I had an ide’, Bill,” said Bannard, as how ef Lin- 
dy had mo’ time ter study ’bout hit she’d see as Bry¬ 
son, with all them fine ways o’ his’n, warn’t ther man 
fur her, but ther ornery cuss never give her no time. 
When youse war all bruck up, an’ me nigh ’bout dead, 
Lindy warn’t in no shape ter stand agin’ him, an’ he 
knowd hit; but right then he pestered of her inter 
makin’ ther promise. Hit was a mean, low-down 
trick, Bill, fur him ter do hit that-a-way. Po’ gal, 
she ain’t ter blame, an’ by G—d! ef nothin’ else comes 
up ter stop him from a-takin’ of her, I’ll do hit.” 

“John, John,” said Holler, “ef youse killed Bry¬ 
son, er even run him outen ther country, hit wouldn’t 
do youse no good.” 

“I knows that, Bill,” said he quickly, “I knows 
that; but hit’d save ther gal from him, an’ that’s 
what I wants mor’n anythin’ else.” 

“But,” replied Bill, “Lindy thinks a power o’ youse, 
John, an’ hit’d hurt her ef yer done hit. Losin’ him 
would be one hurt, an’ losin’ youse another hurt, an’ 


100 


MOONSHINE 


a bigger one, too, kase, John, Lindy loves yer now 
forty times better’n she do Bryson.” 

“Then why in hell does she stick ter him this-a- 
way, an’ kick me?” asked Bannard. 

“Hit’s jist kase she’s done said she’d marry him, 
John, an’ like I done tol’ yer, wimen critters is all 
hard headed an’ cur’us. Hit’s all right, an’ a fine 
thing when they is on ther right side of ther fence, 
John, but when they hain’t hit’s hell, John, hit’s jist 
HELL. I wish’t I could change ther gal, boy, I sure 
does, but I knows as how ef I tried ter prize her holt 
loose she’d hang on tighter ’n ever. Hit’s a hard 
an’ nasty dose, boy, but I’m a’feard hit’s got ter be 
took.” 

“I dunno ’bout that, Bill,” said Bannard sternly, 
“I hain’t made up my mind yit. I’ll have ter go off 
an’ study a spell. I done tol’ Lindy I didn’t know 
what I mought do ef I war pushed, an’ I don’t.” 

With that John walked slowly down the road to¬ 
wards the mill. 



Chapter XIII 


THE PRIZE SCARECROW 

E arly one morning, several days after the events 
recorded, Richmond Philips again rode up to 
the shack of Sam Poole and hailed. 

Sam soon appeared at the door, and when he saw 
who was his visitor he flew into a rage, began to curse 
and abuse the officer and call him every vile name his 
memory had retained. 

“You-revenuer,” he roared, “ef I’d 

knowd you-all was aimin’ ter git Bill Holler an’ John 
Bannard in trouble I’d seen you-all, an’ yer d—n five 
dollars in hell afore I’d hep’d yer. Git away f’um 
here, yer ornery cuss, an’ don’t yer come a pesterin’ 
of me no mo’ er I’ll take ol’ Betsy an’ fill yer hide full 
o’ squirrel shot.” 

Philips sat upon his horse calmly, an amused ex¬ 
pression on his face, while Sam poured out upon him 
the vials of his wrath. When he had raved until 
his breath was short, and his stock of adjectives be¬ 
gan to run low, Philips cut him off. 

“You don’t know what you are cussin’ about, 
Sam. Just let up and I’ll tell you something. Come 
near, so I won’t have to talk so loud, though if there 


101 




102 


MOONSHINE 


had been anybody within half a mile you would have 
had them here by this time.” 

Sam sullenly left the door, where he had been 
standing while flaying the officer, came over to with¬ 
in a few feet of him and said, “Now what’yer got 
ter say? Say hit quick, an’ git.” 

“You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said, Sam, when 
you know what I am doing,” said Philips. “When 
I hired you to get those ‘recommends’ it was not to 
help me get your friends in trouble. That had al¬ 
ready been done. It was to find out who did it. I 
found out, and now I am going after him.” 

“Youse knows who hit war,” asked Sam, “an’ is 
gwine ter git him?” “I sure am,” said Philips,, “and 
while I’ve got to take Holler and Bannard back with 
me to stand trial, I don’t believe it will go very hard 
with them, not if I can help it, at any rate. Now 
that I am ready to handle the other man I thought 
I’d tell you about it. I heard that you was cussin’ 
me for everything you could think of and wanted 
you to know just how things were going. Who did 
you ever tell what you did for me ?” 

“I never tol’ nobody,” said Sam, “I’m lazy, an’ 
no ’count, but I hain’t no sich fool as ter tell ’bout 
hit. Ef ther fellers here’bout thunk I’d give Bill 
an’ John away they’d take my hide offen me an’ peg 
hit out ter dry. Mister Philips,” he continued, “who 
is hit you-all is gwine ter git?” 


MOONSHINE 


103 


“Can’t tell you now, Sam,” replied the officer, 
“but you’ll know soon enough. Come to think of it, 
I believe I’ll take you along to see what is done. I 
know it will amuse you, and you may be useful, but 
only on one condition, until I give you leave to speak 
you must keep that big mouth of yours shut. If you 
think you can do that, jump up behind, and we’ll go.” 

Sam did not delay to dress. His outfit consisted of 
merely pants and shirt,' and his head was embellished, 
rather than covered, by a tattered wool hat, from 
the holes in which tufts of sandy hair protruded, like 
tussocks in the marsh. The baggy trousers were held 
up by a piece of hickory bark, drawn over one should¬ 
er, and no mortal could have told their original color, 
nor that of his shirt, while below the frayed ends of 
the legs appeared nearly a foot of lean shin, and feet 
which had not known a shoe since the past winter, 
red, scarred, and briar scratched. 

“You sure are a prize scarecrow,” commented 
Philips, as he surveyed him, “but get up. We must 
be going.” 

He removed his left foot from the stirrup and 
Sam, inserting a scaly toe, swung lightly up behind. 
At a turn of the rein, and a word from Philips, the 
powerful black cantered easily down the road with 
his double burden. 

About an hour later they rode up to Bryson’s store 


104 


MOONSHINE 


and drew rein. “Bryson about?” asked Philips, of a 
man who sat on a box outside the door. 

“No, he hain’t,” responded the individual. “Who 
be youse? Whar yer from? What yer doin’ with 
Sam, an’ what yer want with Bryson?” 

“Too many questions,” said Philips, “and I’ve no 
time to answer any of them. Where’s Bryson?” 

“Hit’s none of yer damn biznez as I knows on,” 
said the man. “Ef youse kain’t ans’er none of my 
questions I hain’t gwine ter ans’er none of yourn.” 

“Well, if that is the way you look at it,” said 
Philips, “I don’t mind swapin’ one for the other. My 
name is Richmond; I’ve brought Sam along for com¬ 
pany, and to show me the road, and I want to see 
Bryson on some business he wrote me about some 
time back. He asked me to come up here.” 

“He axed yer ter come, did he ?” said the man, now 
dropping his tone of suspicion. “Then I reckin youse 
has come ter be at ther weddin’?” 

“Exactly,” said Philips, “and the wedding he said 
was to be at Bill Holler’s or some such name. Is 
that right?” 

“I reckin’ that’s hit,” said the man, “an’ sence 
thar’s whar youse is goin’ ter I don’t mind a tellin’ 
of yer thet Mr. Bryson’s done gone up thar this 
mornin’ an’ lef’ me ter look a’ter ther sto’. I reckin 
you-all ’ll find him thar. I reckin you-all is f’um Ten- 


MOONSHINE 


105 


nessy, an’ know’d Mr. Bryson afo’ he come here.” 

“Yes,” said Philips, “I know all about him before 
he came here,” and smiled at the grim joke. “Well, 
we must be going on,” he continued, “Sam wants to 
stop at the mill and see a friend of his, John Ban- 
nard.” 

“They does say,” volunteered the man on the box, 
“as how Bannard is pow’ful put out. He done tried 
ter git Bill’s gal, but Mr. Bryson wer’ too slick fur 
him. John got ’rested fer makin’ licker, an’ ther 
gal kicked him. John war shot when ther revenuers 
cotch him an’ Bill, an’ come purt’ nigh goin’ up ther 
crick, but he’s all right now. 

“They does say as how him an’ Bill put up a nasty 
fight, an’ would a-licked ther durned revenuers ef 
they hadn’t shot John fust off. Howsomever, John 
shot one of ’em, an’ Bill beat ’em up scand’lous afore 
they busted his haid an’ knocked him plum out. 

“Mr. Bryson had done tol’ John Bannard ther 
revenuers ’d git him ef he didn’t quit a-stillin’, but 
he never paid no ’tenshun t’ hit, an’ ’lowd ther reve¬ 
nuers ’d never find ther still which wer’ up Buck in 
ther laurel. 

“John an’ Bill is cal’latin’ ter go down ter States¬ 
ville an’ stan’ trial, but they hain’t sent fur ’em yit. 
Mr. Bryson says as how ef they goes hit 11 be ter 


106 


MOONSHINE 


stay, as they’ll jail ’em sho’ fur a pa’cel of years. 
Pity, too, fur them is good fellers.” 

“Thank you,” said Philips, “we must get along,” 
and rode away, leaving the loquacious individual who 
returned to his occupation of cutting notches in the 
side of the box with a huge pocket knife. 


Chapter XIV 


“I’VE GOT MY GUN” 

J ohn Bannard sat on his rock outside the mill 
door and thought over the situation which now 
confronted him. He was sorely perplexed, and con¬ 
flicting emotions swayed his mind from side to side 
like the swing of the pendulum of a clock. All the 
summer he had watched Bryson’s actions for evi¬ 
dence of the “yaller streak” which he was sure existed 
in the man, which he had been confident of finding, 
and on which he had based his hopes that Lindy 
would be brought to see him as he really was and 
give the decided answer “no.” 

Now he had demonstrated that his opinion had 
been correct, yet this had come too late, and was to 
have no effect. 

For all this the one thought was still uppermost in 
his mind. Brooks Bryson must not have his Lindy. 
He should not. This he had said again and again, 
but how best to act to prevent it was a question he 
could not yet answer. 

If Bill would only say it should not be, it would 
not, in spite of the stubborn disposition he attributed 
to all “wimen critters,” he felt sure of that; but 


107 


108 


MOONSHINE 


Bill was too good-hearted and kind to force the girl 
to give up what it seemed she had set her heart on 
doing, even though he thought she was mistaken, 
and might some day regret it. 

No, Bill would not interfere. If anything was to 
be done it was up to him—John Bannard. What 
should it be? He was ready to sacrifice himself in 
any way, but Bill said that if he did so it would 
break Lindy’s heart—just what he wanted to avoid. 

The wedding was to be tomorrow, and time was 
short. He must decide on some plan of action at 
once. Bryson would be nothing in his hands in a 
physical encounter, so he must give him some sort of a 
chance for his life, even though he had not been ac¬ 
corded it, and knew that Bryson would not hesitate 
to take any advantage of him that would gain his 
ends. 

His decision was made. He would take his rifle 
and give Bryson the chance to do the same, if he 
would take it. Each would have but the one shot. 
Let that one shot decide who was to live or die. 

He went into the mill, took up his gun and ex¬ 
amined it carefully. It had been loaded for some 
time and might not go off, or hang fire, and had best 
be fired and reloaded. It was the usual type used 
at that time, a long-barrel muzzle loader, with silver 
bead and forked rear sight, over which was arched a 



JOHN BANNARD 







MOONSHINE 


109 


shade of dull tin, double or hair-triggered, and used 
the ordinary “G. D.” or “waterproof” cap. 

John walked to the door and, selecting a spot on 
the big oak which stood across the road, threw the 
gun to his shoulder and touched the trigger. There 
was a slight crack, for those guns were lightly 
charged, and made little noise, and the bark flew 
from the spot he had selected. 

Gun in hand Bannard walked over to inspect the 
tree and see the result of his shot. “Plum in ther 
middle,” he remarked, “ef that ’d bin a button on 
Bryson’s coat, I’d’ve got him.” He returned to the 
mill, wiped the barrel clean with a wad of tow, and 
carefully recharged it, saw that the powder had come 
up in the tube and then set it aside. 

John felt better now that he had decided on what 
he would do, and went about his work as if nothing 
unusual were to occur. He filled the hopper with 
corn and opened the gate which allowed water to flow 
on the big wheel, examined the meal as it came from 
the stones, then once more lighted his pipe and went 
outside. 

He was surprised to see that some one had come, 
not with a “turn” of grist, but with “the prize scare¬ 
crow,” for there was Philips on his splendid black, 
and in place of a sack of corn was the vagabond— 
Sam Poole. 


110 


MOONSHINE 


John, for the moment, said no word, but it flashed 
across his mind that of course Philips had come to 
take him away, and that what he had contemplated 
could not be accomplished. Could not? It must be. 
He would not go until it was; he would appeal' to the 
officer for just one day’s time. 

The voice of Philips roused him from his reverie. 
“Well, Bannard, you stare at us like you might see 
a ghost. Is it me you are afraid of, or does what 
I’ve got behind me make the cold shivers run up 
your back? What’s the matter, man? It is not 
because you are afraid of me, for I happen to know 
you are not afraid of anything. What is it?” 

John pulled himself together and laughed. “No, 
Philips, I hain’t afeard—hit ain’t that. ’Light, won’t 
yer? I reckin youse has come fur me an’ Bill. What’s 
Sam bin a-doin’?” 

“Sam has not been doing anything,” laughed Phil¬ 
ips. “Did you ever know him to do anything? I 
thought his reputation for innocent idleness was pret¬ 
ty well established. No, I just brought Sam for 
company, and to give him, as a friend of yours, the 
privilege of qualifying as a .witness to some things 
which are going to happen.” 

“I don’t somehow understand yer,” said the mys¬ 
tified Bannard. 

“That’s not so strange,” said Philips, “but you 


MOONSHINE 


111 


will pretty soon, for I’ve got a surprise for you and, 
from what I know, it will be a pleasant one.” 

“Hain’t me an’ Bill got ter go?” asked John. 

“I am sorry to say you have,” said Philips. “That 
is not it, and I am not going to tell you what it is at 
all, but I’m going to show you. Shut off your water 
and come with me.” 

“Whar’s yer goin’ ter take me?” asked Bannard. 
“Does yer want me ter go ’thout gettin’ any other 
clo’s, fixin’ nothin’ so hit ’ll not drap ter pieces whilst 
I’m gone, ner sayin’ nothin’ ter nobody?” 

“Nothing of the kind,” replied Philips. “You will 
have a chance for all that as we won’t start for States¬ 
ville until morning. I am going up to Holler’s, right 
away, and want you to go with me. That’s all.” 

Bannard stiffened up and scowled. “I don’t want 
ter go thar,” he said in a determined tone, “an’ I 
hain’t goin,’ nuther.” 

“I know you don’t,” said Philips, “and I know why 
you don’t, but you must. You are now my prisoner 
and must go if I say so. I’ll give you my word that 
you’ll not be sorry. I took your word once, now 
take mine.” 

Bannard stood irresolute. Was he to be deprived 
of the chance of carrying out the plan he had made? 
He could not tell the officer for he would then pre¬ 
vent him, and that he must not permit anything to do. 


112 


MOONSHINE 


At last he said, “Mr. Revenuer, youse has toted fair 
with us-uns. In coase I’m goin’ with yer, but I 
wants ter ax yer one mo’ favor, hit’s this: Will yer 
turn me a-loose when ther sun’s ’bout hour high? 
I’ll come back by dark, er mabbe sooner—ef I kin.” 

“All right,” said Philips, “you can have that time, 
and more if you think you want it then.” 

John shut off the water, closed the mill door, and, 
throwing his rifle over his shoulder, preceded the 
horse up the road towards the Holler place. 

Bannard was puzzled. What was the officer going 
to do, and why must he go with him ? He still feared 
that something would happen to prevent him from 
meeting Bryson that evening as he went home, and 
forcing his hand, one way or another. “Well,” he 
said, “I’ve got my gun, an’ ef ther wust comes an’ I 
jist has ter do som’thin’—I knows how ter use hit.” 

When they arrived at the bars Philips rode up 
alongside of Bannard and said in a low tone, “I 
brought Sam along on condition that he keep his 
mouth shut. I am going to require the same thing 
of you. Whatever happens, let me do the talking, 
and say nothing unless I give you leave to do so. Do 
you agree?” 

John nodded. He was now more puzzled than 
ever as to what Philips intended to do. He would 
obey orders, but nothing must stop him from meet- 


MOONSHINE 


113 


ing Bryson; nothing must keep him from saving his 
Lindy from the clutches of this man whom he felt 
would bring her only misery and disgrace. 

“Yes,” he said to himself, “hit’s all right ’bout 
ther talk. I hain’t goin’ ter talk. I don’t want ter 
talk, but I’ve got my gun.” 

Arriving at the house they found all at home but 
“Big Bill.” Two of the neighboring women were 
with Mrs. Holler in the kitchen, “bakin’ up truck fur 
ther weddin’.” When she beheld the officer she put 
her gingham apron over her face and burst into a 
flood of tears and lamentations. “Oh, Lordy, Oh, 
Lordy, 9 ’ she wailed. “He’s come fur Bill, he’s come 
fur Bill.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Holler,” said Philips, “I’ve come for 
Bill, and I’ve got to take him, but from what I know 
he will not be away for so very long. Don’t worry 
about it now. Where is Bill?” 

“Down in ther bottom,” she replied, and continued 
to sob and wail, while her friends tried in vain to 
comfort and quiet her. 

Hearing the commotion, Bryson and Lindy came 
in from the other house. When she saw Philips 
and John her face paled, more really from the sight 
of Bannard than the officer. Of course, the time had 
come when her father and John must go down for 
trial, she understood that, and it was bad enough, 


114 


MOONSHINE 


but it came suddenly over her that she was about to 
lose John forever—John who had been as a brother 
all her life—John who loved her as perhaps none 
other did, or ever would—John whom she had prom¬ 
ised a “chance” and then in a moment of despair and 
weakness had broken her word and cast him aside. 
Ever since the fatal day when she had been forced to 
own this to him had her conscience smitten her. The 
soft words and many promises of her handsome lover 
had not availed to alleviate the pangs of remorse she 
felt. Only because she did not know the way back 
did she persist in following the course she had chosen. 

Now was the climax, and the time when her 
strength and fortitude were to be tried to the limit. 
She endeavored to balance what Bryson tried to per¬ 
suade her she would gain against what she was sure 
she was going to lose, and show that he was right, but 
the down-weight seemed to be greatly on the other end 
of the scales. Silent and dazed she stood until Bry¬ 
son took her hand and led her away. 


Chapter XV 


THE END OF THE ROPE 

* fy’LL go fur Bill,” said Bannard, and with his rifle 
-■“Still on his shoulder he took the path leading 
down by the old spring-house to the bottom field. 

As he passed the spring he took down the gourd, 
which hung on top of a broken bush, and dipping 
it full of the crystal water, took a long, deep draught. 
“Don’t know when I’ll git no mo’ like hit,” he ob¬ 
served; “they tells me as how down country water 
hain’t much ’count, an’ gives a feller ther ager, an’ 
sich. What in hell folks wants ter live ther’ fur beats 
my time.” 

Bannard found Bill hard at work down near the 
creek. “Howdy, Bill”—“Howdy, John.” Each stood 
looking the other in the eye. Neither knew how to 
speak. At last Bannard broke the silence: 

“Philips done come fur us-uns, Bill. He’s up t’ 
ther house, an’ says as how he wants yer right off.” 
Bill did not reply, and he continued: “We don’t 
have ter go twel mornin’, but he wants yer now. 
What in ther Devil he’s gwine ter do, I dunno, but 
hit’s som’thin’. He done brung Sam Poole behind 
him on his hoss, an’ he says ter me, says he: ‘I brung 


115 


116 


MOONSHINE 


Sam ter see what we’r’ doin’ on condition as he keeps 
his big mouth shet, an’ I wants youse ter do ther same. 
Don’t say nothin’ lesten I gives yer leave.’ Now 
whatyer make outen that?” 

“Hit air cu’rus,” said Bill, “let’s go see what he’s 
up ter. Mabbe he hain’t got ter take us.” 

“Yes, he do have ter,” said John, “he done tol’ me 
that. Hit sure beats my time what he’s up ter.” 

As they started towards the house Bill asked, 
“John, what fur is yer a-totin’ yer gun? I hain’t 
seed yer tote a gun fur five year, lesten youse was 
goin’ huntin’. What yer goin’ ter do with hit?” And 
he eyed John suspiciously. 

“I didn’t know but I mought need hit,” replied Ban- 
nard. “I don’t know yit, but what I mought need 
hit.” 

“John,” said Bill solemnly, “I done tol’ yer that 
ef yer did anythin’ ter Bryson hit’d hurt youse, an’ 
hurt Lindy. Yer ain’t goin’ ter do that, John?” 

Bannard faced him squarely. “An’ I done tol’ her, 
an’ I done tol’ youse as how I didn’t know what I 
mought do ef I wer’ driv ter hit,” he retorted hotly. 
“Youse is her Pap, an’ won’t do nothin’ ter keep her 
from thet damn yaller sneak, so, hit’s up ter me, 
Bill. 

“I done swore he’ll never have her, ef I has ter 
kill him. I’ll give him er chance, ef he’ll take hit, 


MOONSHINE 


117 


an’ ef not, an’ he won’t git outen here an’ leave Lindy 
’lone—I’ll put him whar he cain’t pester her, ner no¬ 
body. That’s all I has ter say, Bill.” 

“I cain’t let yer do hit, John. I cain’t let yer,” 
said Bill. “Lindy’s done tuk her pick, an’ I cain’t go 
agin’ her. I won’t let yer do no sich fool thing ef I kin 
he’p hit, an yer knows I kin. Gimme ther gun, John. 
Ef youse don’t I’ll take hit, an’ yer knows I kin do 
that, easy.” 

They were near the spring, where a few moments 
before Philips had come for a drink. Bill’s last words 
showed him the turn matters had taken. 

As Bannard backed slowly away, prepared to re¬ 
sist being disarmed at any cost, Philips stepped 
quickly in between the men, and held up his hand. 

“Easy men, easy,” he said. “John Bannard, I don’t 
blame you a bit for what you want to do, but you 
won’t have to. Come on to the house with me, and if, 
in an hour, you think you want to come back here and 
start in where you have quit, I’ll come back with you, 
and see the fun.” 

Sullenly the men obeyed him, and all went up the 
hill in silence. 

When they reached the house Philips called all 
together in the main room. “I’ve something to tell 
you all,” said he. 

All took seats but Bannard. He stood by the 


118 


MOONSHINE 


door, gun in hand, and prepared for any emergency 
which might arise. He had considerable confidence 
in Philips, but more in his gun, on which his grip 
never, for a moment, relaxed, nor did his eyes waver 
from Bryson’s face, which now wore a look of sur¬ 
prise, as indeed did those of each of the others. 

Rich Philips took a bundle of papers from his 
pocket, laid them on the table at his side, unfolded 
one and began: 

“Last spring our department received a letter, 
which I will read to you: ‘If you want to catch some 
moonshiners, send a man up on Buck Creek to look 
around. Let him go to Bannard’s mill, and watch 
the miller. The still is somewheres up the creek 
above what is known as “the elbow,” and is reached 
by a boat which will be found tied just above the shoal 
in a clump of bushes.’ 

“When this was received I was detailed to take up 
the case, and as you all know, did so; but I had some 
curiosity as to who the informant was, and set about 
finding out. I knew nobody for miles around but 
Sam Poole, so to Sam I went. I told him nothing 
of the letter, but that I wanted him to go around the 
section and get me some specimens of writing from 
those who could write fairly well. Sam adopted the 
plan of asking for a recommendation, saying that he 
was going away to look for a job which all considered 


t 


MOONSHINE 


119 


such a good joke that they gave him what he asked 
for without question. He got several, all of which 
I have, but this is the only one we need consider.” 
Opening another paper he read Bryson’s “recom¬ 
mend.” 

“When I put this beside the other letter I saw that 
the same hand had written both, though an attempt 
to disguise the writing in the letter had been made. 

“The letter was written by Brooks Bryson!” 

Everyone jumped to his feet, and Lindy scream¬ 
ed: “Brooks! Brooks! Tell him he lies. I knows 
yer didn’t do hit. Tell him he lies, Brooks.” 

Bryson was pale, but he did not entirely lose his 
nerve. “I did not write it,” he said. “Why should 
I enter complaint against one who I hoped would 
become my father-in-law? I certainly did not write 
it, and there is no proof that I did. This man is a 
revenue officer, not a handwriting expert.” 

Philips laughed. “Of course I expected you to 
deny it,” he said, “but Bryson, you would not dare to 
submit those letters to a handwriting expert, and you 
know it. However, we will lay that aside for the 
present. It don’t amount to a great deal anyway.” 

Bannard fingered his gun, and his eyes glittered, 
but he said no word. Holler, too, was silent, re¬ 
membering the admonition of Philips to John and 
Sam. 


120 


MOONSHINE 


Philips continued calmly: “I have here some other 
papers. One is dated April 24* 1B 81, and is a poster 
sent out at that time calling for the arrest of a forger 
and embezzler, one Beverly B. Burton.” 

Bryson sprang to his feet, and his hand went to 
his hip, but he found himself looking into the un¬ 
wavering muzzle of John Bannard’s rifle, and made 
no move to escape or draw a gun. 

There was tense silence for a few seconds. Then 
Philips arose and went on: “Beverly B. Burton, 
alias Brooks Bryson, here is still another paper. It 
is a warrant for your arrest.” 

“You can’t do it,” screamed Bryson, “you have 
no right to arrest me. You are only a revenue offi¬ 
cer, and not a state official.” 

“A Deputy Sheriff, also,” said Philips. “I attend¬ 
ed to that,” and, turning suddenly, he snapped a pair 
of handcuffs on Bryson’s wrists. 

Then he smiled and said, “Sam, you and Bannard 
may talk now, if you have anything to say.” 

Poole flew into a rage and began to abuse Bryson, 
or Burton, in terms which made his “cussin’ out” of 
Philips seem like a Sunday school lesson, but Philips 
checked him. “No more, Sam,” he said, “in here. 
Go out to the barn and finish your sermon.” 

Bannard, who had stood through it all with gun 
raised, hammer at a full cock and finger at the trigger, 


MOONSHINE 


121 


said only, “I know’d hit,” and turned from the cul¬ 
prit in disgust, while “Big Bill” said nothing, as at 
that time Lindy came on the stage and took the part 
of leading lady. 

In most stories, under such conditions, perhaps 
also in real life, the heroine would be “carried faint¬ 
ing from the room” or in tears plead for her lover, 
so soon to have been her husband. Lindy Holler did 
neither of these things. 

Drawing herself up to her full height she faced 
the man, and looked him straight in the eye. Burton 
raised his shackled hands before his face, as if to 
ward off a blow, and sank back into his chair. 

Lindy turned from him. “John,” she said, “John,” 
in the tone which women the world over when dis¬ 
tress prompts them to seek the protection of the 
stronger sex, ever use. “John!” and John Bannard 
set his rifle against the wall, put his arm about the 
now sobbing girl, saying softly, “Lindy, gal, my 
Lindy!” and they passed out of the room together 
into the sunlight—real sunlight for both. 


Chapter XVI 


THE TRIAL 

I T is not necessary to recount the events which trans¬ 
pired at the Holler home during the rest of the 
day and night, except to note that arrangements were 
made for John’s old uncle, Tom, to stay with Mrs. 
Holler and Lindy, and Burlison was engaged to at¬ 
tend the mill while the men were absent. 

John went back to the mill in the afternoon and 
finished his grinding, and, as Philips wished to make 
an early start the following morning, appeared just 
as day was breaking, clad in his best suit of home- 
spun, and mounted on his shaggy little mountain 
horse. 

Holler was to ride “Kit” and a mount was pro¬ 
vided for Burton. He was placed in the saddle, a 
piece of trace chain was passed around his body and 
made fast to the horn, and the bridle put in his 
manacled hands. 

Lindy was not to be seen, having remained in the 
other part of the house while the others ate the break¬ 
fast she had prepared. 

“Don’t le’me see him, John,” she had begged. “I 
don’t want ter see him no mo’.” 


122 


MOONSHINE 


123 


When all were ready to depart John and Bill went 
into the house to bid farewell to the “wimen crit¬ 
ters.” Mrs. Holler was weeping bitterly, but Lindy’s 
eyes were dry, as she said simply, “Good-bye, Pap,” 
and, “Good-bye, John, I knows you-all ’ll come back 
ter’rectly; we-uns ’ll be a-lookin’ fer yer.” 

Philips rode in front wfith his prisoner, while the 
other tw T o “prisoners” came together behind. 

When they passed Sam Poole’s shanty he was 
ready for them and, there being no women folk in the 
party Philips allowed him to use his vocabulary to 
its limit. This he did to his evident satisfaction, and 
continued his volley of abuse so long as the object 
of his wrath was within ear-shot. 

The ride of the day was uneventful. Bill and John 
conversed but little, and there was no extended con¬ 
versation between Philips and his charge. 

Burton was sullen and defiant. He had failed in 
his scheme, and was at the end of his rope. Philips 
was responsible for that failure, and he hated him. 
Every word and every look showed this, yet he was 
now powerless to help himself, and the man who 
rode so calmly at his side was his master. 

The party put up for the night at a house on the 
banks of the Yadkin river, and the next morning 
rode into Statesville, where Burton was lodged in 
jail. 


124 


MOONSHINE 


“Boys,” said Philips, “now we are rid of that ani¬ 
mal, let’s get some dinner, and rest a bit. You can 
stay at the house where I board tonight. Tomorrow 
I will have to turn you over to the Marshal. I’ve 
spoken to him about you, and to the Judge, too, and 
believe you will get a square deal. Besides this, I 
have in mind a lawyer who I think will take your 
case.” 

“What fur does we-uns want a lawyer?” inquired 
Holler. “Ther’ hain’t; nothin’ ter say ’ceptin’ as we 
was stillin’, an’ fit yer when yer com’ an’ cotch us. I 
don’t see as how a lawyer ’d make anythin’ out’en 
hit, ef we has one.” 

“That is because you don’t know how lawyers 
work,” said Philips, “there are several kinds of law¬ 
yers. Some of them only take a case for the money 
there is in it for them, others do so because they be¬ 
lieve in their side, and those do everything they can 
to win out. You just let me see toi that. If the man 
I spoke of decides to take up for you, you can have 
your horses saddled for the ride home.” 

“All right, ef yer thinks that-a-way,” said Bill, 
“an’ we sure thanks yer, but I don’t see what good 
hit’ll do.” 

Neither Bill nor John cared to sleep that night, 
though they did get a few hours rest. Their quiet 
life had been rudely stirred by the events of the sum- 


MOONSHINE 


125 


mer, and the next day was to be the closing act of the 
drama. 

Neither had any conception of a court, having 
never even been to the county court-house town when 
court was in session, but they stood in awe of the 
great man who was to sit in judgment on their case, 
wondered what he would be like, and what he would 
say. 

“What yer ’low he’ll do t’ us-uns, Bill,” said John, 
“Does yer reckin he’ll jail us, an’ fur how long?” 

“I ’low he’ll jail us all right, John, he can’t do 
nothin’ else. We was cotch a-stillin’ an that’s what 
they does ter them as is cotch, but how many years 
he mought give us, I dunno.” 

“God A’mighty!” ejaculated Bannard, “but hit’s 
tough.” 

So they passed the night, and in the morning Phil¬ 
ips “turned them over to the Marshal” with this com¬ 
ment : 

“These are the two boys from up on Buck that 
I told you about, ‘Big Bill’ Holler and John Ban¬ 
nard. I don’t have to tell you which one is Bill, and 
the other one is John. See?” 

The Marshal laughed. “You described them to 
me all right, Rich, and I’m prepared to believe the 
rest of the story you told me. I told you that you 
would not find them when you went after them, but 


126 


MOONSHINE 


if I’d seen them first I would not have said it. Come 
on, boys, they are calling court.” 

Bill and John were ushered into the court-room, a 
dingy, dirty place with floor covered with saw-dust 
to take up the streams of tobacco juice which were 
being continually spurted on it by the spectators, and 
court officials as well. 

They were given a seat, and the first case was 
called. Witnesses were sworn in and gave testimony 
for and against the defendant, who pleaded “not 
guilty” to the charge. The lawyers wrangled, read 
from their books, and bullied the witnesses in the 
usual fashion. 

After listening for some time to the conflicting 
testimony, and statements of the lawyers, John whis¬ 
pered to Bill, “Did yer ever hear ther like, Bill? All 
of them fellers is lyin’.” 

At last the case of “The U. S. vs. William Holler 
and John Bannard, charged with operating a still 
without license and resisting arrest” was called. 

“Are the defendants in court?” inquired the Judge. 
“They are, your Honor,” said the Marshal. “Who 
appears for them?” the Judge inquired. 

Col. G. N. Folk, a well-known lawyer of the state, 
rose to his feet. “Your Honor,” said he, “I have 
not been engaged by these defendants to appear for 
them, but I know their story and wish to do so if I 
may so be appointed by the Court.” 


MOONSHINE 


127 


“Certainly, Colonel Folk., said the Judge. “Do 
you wish to proceed with the case now, or do you 
ask a continuance?” 

“I wish to proceed, your Honor. I do not care 
to call any witnesses, and will enter the plea of ‘not 
guilty’ to the indictment.” 

Bill and John looked at each other in amazement. 
Here was a man telling the Judge that they were “not 
guilty,” when they were ! 

Bill rose to his feet. “Jedge;” said he, “I don’t 
know much ’bout how you-all does in co’t, but ter 
save yer trouble, I wants ter say as how that feller 
with ther black whiskers, as has jist said we-uns was 
‘not guilty’ is a-lyin’. Philips, thar, he knows we 
had er still, an’ fit him an’ his crowd. Jist ax Phil¬ 
ips.” 

As Bill took his seat a laugh rippled around the 
room which was promptly suppressed. 

Folk, far from being disconcerted by Bill’s sally, 
and denial of his plea, merely nodded to Philips, 
smiled and said nothing. 

Philips took the stand and told the story of the 
raid and fight, omitting none of the details. 

“This is the evidence we have,” said the District 
Attorney, “take the witness, Colonel Folk.” 

“Mr. Philips,” said Folk, “you have told us the 
facts of the raid, and fight, all of which we admit. 


128 


MOONSHINE 


Now go on and tell the court the rest of the story.” 

As Philips had already talked over the case with 
the Colonel he knew what points he desired him to 
bring out, and told the story well, led up to what was 
most desired by the questions of the lawyer. The 
character of the men, their simple home life, their 
honesty, integrity, and truthfulness, all was brought 
forward in the most effective manner. 

It was plain to see that interest had been awak¬ 
ened, both in the Judge and spectators, for there was 
absolute silence during the whole time that Philips 
was on the stand. 

When he had finished Folk merely said, “Defend¬ 
ants rest their case,” and the District Attorney made 
his argument very briefly, asserting that there was 
little to say, as the men had clearly been proved 
guilty of the charge. 

Then Folk rose. It was known that he seldom 
lost a case, and it was also well known that he never 
took one unless thoroughly convinced of the inno¬ 
cence of his client, and the justice of his cause. 
Unless he felt sure of this no sum was large enough 
to retain him. 

For this reason all wondered how he could defend 
these men, who had owned their guilt in open court, 
and anxiously waited for him to begin his argument. 


MOONSHINE 


129 


Folk walked slowly up and down in front of the 
Judge’s stand, his hands behind his back and his 
piercing black eyes roaming about the room, then, 
suddenly facing the judge, began. 


Chapter XVII 


JUSTICE 


our Honor, I offered to defend these men 



JL for the sole reason that I desired to assist 
you in meting out to them the justice which they de 
serve. 

“In entering the plea of ‘not guilty’ I did not in¬ 
tend to infer that they had not broken the law, but 
that they were really not guilty of intentional wrong. 
Our laws, your Honor, as I take it, were made to 
prevent crime and wrong doing, not to foster it. If 
the strict enforcement of these laws is to result in 
making criminals out of honest men and good citi¬ 
zens, like these before you today, and imposing on 
them unnecessary hardship and injustice, then are we, 
the framers and administrators of these laws, the 
criminals, and should be dealt with accordingly. 

“And the penalties attached to these laws. What 
are they for? What is their object? Is it merely 
to impose a financial hardship, or inflict bodily harm, 
or is it to teach a lesson and show men that so long 
as these laws are on our books they should be obeyed? 

“It is argued that the people make the laws by 
which they are to be governed, and should therefore 


130 


MOONSHINE 


131 


the more be bound by them. This I deny. The peo¬ 
ple, your Honor, do not make the laws. True, they 
are made by those chosen to represent them, but how 
much, think you, the average American citizen knows 
what his so-called representative is about, or by what 
influences he is swayed, when these laws are framed? 

“There are various reasons for the laws which 
we have. Some are designed to give protection to 
our persons, some to protect our property, and others 
to produce a revenue for the maintenance of the gov¬ 
ernment of the town, county, state, or nation. This 
latter, your Honor, is the very worthy object of the 
law which these men are alleged to have violated. 

“There is no law against the making of liquor.* 
Anyone may make it, provided he assures the govern¬ 
ment the tax which it has put on the sale by placing 
it in the custody of the government until such tax 
is paid. 

“For generations these sturdy mountain people 
have been accustomed to use their surplus corn and 
fruit in this way, and to them it has seemed a hard¬ 
ship and injustice to force them to abandon their little 
stills and let their grain and fruit, which it would not 
pay to haul to a market, go to waste. 

“They have merely changed the form of their 
product, and can not understand why this should 

* This was long before our present law, which forbids manufacture or 
sale of intoxicants.—Editor. 



132 


MOONSHINE 


brand them as criminals, to be hunted down, chained, 
and imprisoned. 

“Is this law to be so administered as to create bit¬ 
terness and discontent, to make criminals out of hon¬ 
est men, put a stigma on their names and bring dis¬ 
grace upon their little homes? Such cannot be its 
object! Such must not: be its effect! 

“You have heard the story as told by the officer 
who made the raid and arrest. I ask, is there nothing 
in this story which appeals to your sense of justice 
and right, and touches your heart with a spirit of 
leniency toward these men who, in spite of the fact 
that they broke the law by making a few gallons of 
whiskey, and defending themselves when attacked, 
have demonstrated by their actions that they meant 
no wrong, and by their strict adherence to their 
promise, and truthfulness in all their statements, 
have put us all to shame? 

“And now, your Honor, I am going to change the 
plea made of ‘not guilty’ (from a technical point 
only) and enter that of guilty as indicted, and ask 
the Court in imposing sentence to accept the personal 
bonds of these men and allow them to return to their 
mountain home with the knowledge that justice, real 
justice, can be meted out by our courts, and the im¬ 
pression that the government is not the hard and 
unyielding task-master they have been led to believe. 


MOONSHINE 


133 


“I hope that you will agree with me that such 
action will be in the interest of justice, both to the 
government and the defendants.” 

As Folk concluded and walked calmly to his seat 
there were cheers from many of the spectators which 
the Judge did not attempt to suppress. 

When the District Attorney had formally accepted 
the change of plea the defendants were told to arise, 
and the Judge thus addressed them: 

“William Holler and John Bannard, your counsel 
has agreed to the plea of guilty, and according to the 
letter of the law I am obliged to impose on you the 
sentence prescribed, which is—confinement at hard 
labor in the penitentiary for the term of two years. 
However, I have been very much touched by the 
story told of your lives, and the integrity and noble 
character which it is evident you possess. The coun¬ 
try needs men such as you are, men of simple life, 
men of uprightness and honesty, men who will not 
lie even to save themselves, who will fight when they 
deem it necessary, who are in very truth good citi¬ 
zens and the backbone of the Republic. 

“As your counsel has said, the penalty of the law 
is to teach a lesson and prevent a repetition of the 
offense. This lesson, you have already learned, and 
no possible end could be gained by shutting you up 
in prison for the time the law says you should be. 


134 


MOONSHINE 


“Taking this view of the case I am going to ac¬ 
cede to the request of your counsel, suspend sentence 
and take your personal bonds for good behavior 
during the period. 

“I wish to say further that, from what I already 
know of you, I consider such bonds from you as good 
as if backed by all the finances of the state of North 
Carolina.” 

The mountaineers did not know what to do, so 
they simply stood still and did nothing. They could 
not understand how it was possible for them to be 
free when they had been judged guilty and sentenced 
as they expected to be. 

Holler was the first to recover himself, and find 
his voice. “Jedge,” he said, “does yer mean as we- 
uns kin go home, an’ not have ter go ter jail?” 

“That is a fact,” said the Judge kindly, “and I 
hope you will profit by the lesson you have had and 
have more respect for the law in the future, even if 
it seems to you a bad law.” 

“Thank yer, Jedge,” said Holler. “We-uns didn’t 
know much ’bout ther law, ner keer, bein’ up thar in 
ther mountings whar ther didn’t seem ter be no need 
fur hit; but, Jedge, ef this is hit, we-uns ’ll not fool 
with hit no mo’, ef we knows.” 

“Thank the Colonel, boys,” said the Judge, “he 
is the one you owe most to.” 


MOONSHINE 


135 


Colonel Folk and Philips at that moment came for¬ 
ward and extended their hands in congratulation. 
“Mister,” said Holler, “I fergits what they calls yer, 
ther Jedge ’lows as how we owes most ter youse. 
We hain’t got much, mister, but whatsomever hit is 
me an’ John ’ll pay hit.” 

Folk laughed, and still holding Bill’s enormous 
paw, said, “What you owe me was paid mostly in 
advance, and it’s one of the biggest fees I ever re¬ 
ceived. You have given me more confidence in my 
fellow man than I ever before possessed. It is a 
lesson I shall not soon forget, and will help me on my 
way through this world of strife, lies, and injustice. 
I am glad to have been able to be of service to you. 
My name is George Folk, from Caldwell. If you 
ever need me again I am at your service, but you 
will not, for anything like this. Good-by.” 

Bill and John did not exactly understand this, and 
all they could do was to wring the Colonel’s hand 
until the tears came in his eyes, and say, “We sure 
thanks yer, mister. We sure thanks yer.” 

Legal formalities complied with, Philip again took 
them in charge and they left the court-house, fol¬ 
lowed by cheers and congratulations. 


Chapter XVIII 


HOMEWARD 


H R. Philips,” said Bannard, “ther Colonel 



done said as how we-uns didn’t owe him 


nothin’, but we sure owes a heap ter youse, fur youse 
not only holp us-uns out’en this scrape, but youse 
done smoked that d—n pole-cat Bryson out’en his 
hole, an we’s shet of him fur good. That’s wuth a 
heap, hit is.” 

“Never mind, boys,” said Philips, “I’m going to 
start for Tennessee with him tomorrow and collect 
my $500.00. I telegraphed the sheriff I had him, and 
he replied, ‘Bring him along and the money’s yours.’ 
Then I’m going to quit the revenue business and go 
back on the farm. I have got enough of that job. 
I’ve got no hankering after hunting down such fel¬ 
lows as you.” 

“I’m sho’ glad youse has quit ther revenue,” said 
Bill. “Youse is all right, Philips, but somehow I 
hain’t got no use fur a revenuer. I jist na’cherly feels 
that-a-way.” 

“I don’t blame you,” said Philips, “I haven’t got 
much use for one myself, and that’s why I have de¬ 
cided to quit. You men will want to start home in 


136 


MOONSHINE 


137 


the morning, I suppose. We will have some dinner 
and then knock around town a little.” 

“We kin go now any time we wants ter?” inquired 
Bill. 

“Of course you can,” replied Philips, “but you 
don’t want to leave before morning?” 

“Me an’ John ’lowed we’d saddle up soon as we 
got ther critters fed an’ had a snack. Ther’ ain’t no 
way ter let the gals an’ Uncle Tom know we-uns ain’t 
got ter go ter jail, ’ceptin’ ter go an’ tell ’em. We’d 
better git along, an’ be home fur breakfast tomor- 
rer.” 

This decided the matter. The “critters” were 
fed, the men had dinner, which they ate in evident 
haste, and mounting their horses, set out for their 
distant home. 

“Come up and stop with us-uns a spell sometime,” 
said “Big Bill,” as he shook Philips’ hand at parting. 
We won’t have no mo’ stills fer yer ter find, an’ I 
hopes no mo’ pole-cats fer yer ter smoke out, but 
we’d be pow’ful glad ter see yer a-most any time.” 

“I’ll sure come up some time,” said Rich Philips, 
and he meant it. 

They rode in silence until out of the village, glad 
indeed that they had really started on the road home¬ 
ward. They still could not comprehend just why 
they had been liberated. 


138 


MOONSHINE 


“Bill,” said Bannard, “what yer reckin that law¬ 
yer feller meant by sain’ he done got his pay fur 
what he done?” 

“I dunno, John,” said Bill, “hit beats my time. I 
allers ’lowd as how them sort of fellers, lawyers 
an’ jedges an’ sich like, war mean as hell, an’ wouldn’t 
give a po’ man no chance, ner do nothin’ fur nobody 
’ceptin they was paid. When that ther’ triflin’ Ed. 
Hawkins wer ’rested an’ tuk ter Bakersville, an’ tried 
fur stealin’ of a shoat, he got off, but them lawyers 
up thar charged him a heap, much as twenty dollars, 
I heard, an’ he had ter leave his old hoss as s’curity 
twel he scratched ’round an’ got hit. 

“Them fellers wer’ pow’ful good ter us. I’m sho’ 
sorry we-uns got inter ther trubble, but we learned 
a heap, an’ picked up some friends. That revenuer 
feller, Philips, sho’ holp us a heap, an’ a’ter we’d fit 
him, too. Hit beats my time.” 

“I ’low hit mought er bin’ ’kase we didn’t try ter 
git away, an’ never lied ter none of ’em,” observed 
John, “but that ain’t nothin’ fur ter fuss over. A-most 
anybody ’d a-done that-a-way.” 

So, as they rode towards home they discussed what 
they had been through, and speculated on the why 
and wherefore. They could not see that it was their 
own honest way of dealing and truthfulness that had 
won the friends who came to their aid in the hour of 


MOONSHINE 


139 


need. “Anybody had o’rter done that, 1 ’ was the 
only way they could see it. 

Night came, but they rode on, stopping only long 
enough to allow the horses to be well-fed and have 
some rest, and to get a meal for themselves. 

The horses were good walkers, the only gait for 
mountain travel, and the miles were counted off at 
the rate of nearly four every hour. 

As they came nearer the end of their journey, and 
into the home country, thoughts of what they had 
been through gave place to what was now ahead. 

The Past must ever give place to the Present, the 
Present to the Future. 

In spite of all that they had been through and the 
long night ride, they now felt as fresh and strong 
as boys, and looked no longer backward, but for¬ 
ward to the homes, and loved ones, who awaited 
them among their beloved hills. 

Naturally conversation turned to these things as 
they crossed the last ford of the river and came into 
the lower part of Buck Creek Valley. 

“Hear ol’ Buck!” said John, “don’t she make a 
purty fuss ? Hit ’ll sho’ sound good ter hear the old 
mill runnin’ agin’. Seems like we’s bin gone a mighty 
long spell, an’ hit ain’t but three days!” 

“Hit do seem long,” said Bill, “an I s’picions as 
how hit seemed a mighty sight longer ter Jennie, an’ 


140 


MOONSHINE 


Lindy, an’ ol’ man Tom, fur they ain’t know’d nothin’ 
what war doin’, an’ ’lowes we-uns is in jail.” 

After a moment’s pause Bill continued, “John, boy, 
I wants ter ax yer pardon. I bin thinkin’ ’bout ther 
way I done ’bout Lindy. I jist na’cherly couldn’t go 
agin’ ther gal, John, an’ Bryson war sich a inticin’ 
cuss, but I war wrong, John, an’ youse war right. 
I know’d all ’long as how ther gal sot a heap o’ store 
by youse, but Bryson—.” 

“Yes, I knows,” interrupted Bannard. “I ain’t a 
blamin’ of yer now, though yer com’ purt’ nigh makin’ 
a mess of hit. I’d done said as Bryson shouldn’t have 
ther gal, an’ ef Philips hadn’t come an’ nabbed him, 
he wouldn’t of got her nohow.” 

“John, youse wouldn’t a shot him?” said Bill. 

“You knows what I done said,” replied Bannard, 
“an’ I had my gun, didn’t I?” 

The eastern sky was brightening, and the moun¬ 
tain tops caught: the first rays of the rising sun, as 
they came over the ridge above the mill. 

Here they could look down on the peaceful valley, 
their little world, where, nestled their humble homes. 
They both were thrilled at the sight, and Bill, in his 
delight, waved his hands above his head and uttered 

a stentorian “HE-E-YI,” and the hills, as 

if to welcome him home, took up the sound and 
echoed and re-echoed—“Yi-Yi-Yi.” 






Chapter XIV 


AFTER THE STRUGGLE, PEACE 
sorrowful day it was for the Holler family 



^ and old “Uncle Tom” when their loved ones 
had departed, perhaps not to return for years, though 
they hoped for the best, without knowing why. 

It was doubly so for Lindy as she went about her 
work. The events of the last day had been a shock 
from which even youth and strength would require 
time to recover. 

She had been cruelly wronged and deceived, yet 
in her heart there lingered no spark of love for the 
handsome Bryson, nor even pity for his sudden and 
ignominious fa/11. His former crime might have 
been forgiven, had it been known, but treachery, 
never. The sternness of her mountain nature could 
make for him no excuse, nor have other than con¬ 
tempt for his dastardly action in betraying her father 
and John Bannard. 

“John,” now it was “John,” and she knew it had 
always been “John,” even when dazzled by the better 
appearance and polished manner of Brooks Bryson. 

“Good God! If John would only come back!” Now 
that she had awakened to realize her true feelings he 


141 


142 


MOONSHINE 


was gone, never to return, or perhaps only after 
the lapse of weary years! She felt now, more than 
ever before, that she had not treated John right in 
any way after Brooks Bryson came between them. 
John, who had been at her side, ready and willing 
to gratify her every wish, ever since she could re¬ 
member. John, whose first thought had always been 
of his “Lindy, gal,” and who would have laid down 
his life for her. And now John was gone, and the 
world was empty, her little world, with which, until 
the coming of the serpent, she had been content. 

Her soul was torn with resentment and remorse— 
resentment against the one who had come into her 
life to disturb its quiet course—remorse that she 
had been weak enough to yield to his blandishments, 
and so bring sorrow on herself and John. Every 
way she turned there was something which brought 
John to her mind. 

Even when she went to milk “Spot” she thought 
of the night when the refractory beast had “histed 
Bill one,” and kicked the very piggin she held in her 
hand against John’s breast and covered him with 
milk. Then she had laughed. She could not laugh 
now. She wondered if she would ever laugh again! 

So passed the day, and night came, only to bring 
other ghosts to torture. Sleep refused to come at 
her bidding, and she arose the next morning pale and 


MOONSHINE 


143 


listless—to worry through another weary day. 
Would all days now be like this? she asked herself. 
If they were to be, how could she endure it? 

For the sake of the others she must rouse herself 
from this state of mind and steel her heart to bear 
with fortitude the trouble which, in a measure, she 
had brought upon herself. “Mam” and poor old 
“Uncle Tom” needed to be comforted and encourag¬ 
ed, and for their sake must she subdue her feelings, 
and let no outward sign appear to indicate the temp¬ 
est within her heart. 

With this resolve she arose on the fourth day, feel¬ 
ing better and calmer for having made it. 

Day was breaking. She walked out on the little 
porch and watched the sunlight tip the mountain 
peaks with gold, and the mists drift down the valley 
in streams of fleecy white. 

Why should she, amidst all this beauty, be so for¬ 
saken and miserable? 

Overcome with emotion she threw herself on her 
knees and, raising her tear-stained face to the light 
now streaming over the hills, prayed just the simple 
words: “Oh, God A’mighty, bring ’em back, bring 
’em back!” 

And then, as if in answer to the prayer, came from 
over the ridge a sound that made her spring to her 
feet and lean forward with intense attention: “HE 

-E-YI!” 




144 


MOONSHINE 


As the echoes took up and repeated her father’s 
call, and she realized that he was indeed coming—and 
John—she ran into the house calling, “Mam! Mam! 
They’s cornin’, I done heard Pap yell,” then across 
the yard, cleared the bars at a bound, and sped down 
the road like a young doe. 

After giving vent to his feelings in the lusty 
whoop, Bill put Kit in a lope, and with John close 
behind, swept down past the mill and on up the slope 
toward his house. 

As they came around a turn in the road to where 
they could see some distance ahead, Lindy appeared, 
racing towards them, hands outstretched in welcome, 
and her face beaming with intense excitement and 
joy. 

“Pap,” she cried, “you-all’s done come, sho’ 
’nough. God done brung yer like I ax’d Him ter.” 

Both men dismounted, and the girl, after greeting 
her father, turned to John, and held out both hands. 

John Bannard took them in his, and gazing into 
her face in almost adoration, said, “Lindy, gal, I’ll 
never leave yer no mo’,” and together they followed 
Bill to the house, where “Mam” and “Uncle Tom” 
awaited them. 

Mrs. Holler threw her arms about Bill, and sob¬ 
bed out her joy, while Uncle Tom, as Lindy express¬ 
ed it, “made a pow’ful fuss over his boy.” 


MOONSHINE 


145 


“ ’Peard like you-all ’d never come back no mo’,” 
he said, “I done give yer out.” 

There was happiness in the Holler home that day, 
happiness such as mortals seldom feel, for it bides 
not with us for long, and even when most intense, 
may at any time be obscured, or snatched away, as 
clouds pass over the sun and shut out his light and 
warmth. 

As the sun was sinking behind the western peaks, 
John and Lindy sat on the little porch together and 
watched the dying day. The mountain sides were re¬ 
splendent in the gorgeous tints of autumn, backed 
by the deep green of laurel and pine. 

All was still save for the faint babble of the waters 
of Buck, and an occasional whistle of a partridge call¬ 
ing in his mate for the night. 

They felt the spell, these two who had passed 
through trial of soul and body, and were now come 
to peace and contentment, the spell of their beloved 
mountains which stood before them in all their 
beauty and grandeur. 

Here was all that made life for them, all they 
knew, all they wished for. Here undisturbed by the 
noisy strife of men, the fierce competition of strug¬ 
gling masses in the cities and towns, the wrangling 
of political parties, and religious sects; here in the 
shadow of the grand piles of nature, reared by the 


146 


MOONSHINE 


hand of The Supreme Architect of the Universe. 
Here they could live the simple life they loved. 

And so they sat in silence, watching the changing 
lights and shadows on distant peak and hillside. 

At last, Lindy, nestling close on John’s shoulder, 
said softly, “Ain’t hit purty, John?” And, John 
Bannard replied, “Hit sho—o’ is, Lindy, gal.” 
































































































































































































